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NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


NOW,  THIS  ONE— WHO'LL  BID  ON  THIS  ONE?" 


NEIGHBORHOOD 
STORIES 


BY 


ZONA   GALE 

AUTHOR  OF   "FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE,"   "THE   LOVES 
OF   PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE,"   ETC. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE 


fiork 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1914 

-All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1912,  by  The  Ridgway  Company,  and  by  The  Buttericlc 
Publishing  Company. 

Copyright,  1913,  by  The  Ridgway  Company. 

Copyright,  1914,  by  The  Ridgway  Company,  by  the  Crowell  Publishing 
Company,  and  by  the  McClure  Publications,  Inc. 


COPYRIGHT,  1914, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1914. 


J.  B.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THE   LITTLE   TOWNS 

OF 

THE  TIME  TO   COME 


M553379 


PREFACE 

"WHEN  I  die"  said  Calliope  Marsh,  "don't 
you  get  anybody  that's  always  treated  me  like  a 
dog  and  -put  them  on  the  front  seat.  Make  'em 
sit  back" 

Then  she  looked  at  me,  her  rare  and  somewhat 
abashed  smile  on  her  face. 

"Birds  and  stars  and  children  and  God  in  the 
world"  she  said,  "and  hark  at  me  talking  like 
that.  Honest,  I  don't  care  where  you  seat  'em." 

That  is  like  Calliope.  And  that  is  like  the 
village.  Blunt  and  sometimes  bitter  speech  there 
is,  and  now  and  again  what  we  gently  call  "words"  ; 
but  the  faith  of  my  experience  is  that  these  are 
facile,  and  need  never  trouble  one.  These  are 
born  of  circumscription,  of  little  areas,  of  teasing 
tasks,  of  lack  of  exercise,  of  that  curious  mingling 
which  we  call  social  life ;  but  any  one  who  takes 
seriously  our  faint  feuds  or  even  our  narrow 
judgments  does  not  know  and  love  the  Middle 
Western  villages,  nor  understand  that  seeds  and 
buds  are  not  the  norm  of  bloom.  Instance,  if  you 
will,  this  case  and  that  to  show  the  contrary.  But 
the  days  of  pioneering,  when  folk  drew  together  in 
defense,  left  us  a  heritage  which  no  isolated  instances 
can  nullify.  On  the  whole,  we  are  all  friends. 


viii  PREFACE 

There  could  be  no  better  basis  for  the  changes 
that  are  upon  us.  The  new  ideals  of  the  great 
world  are  here,  in  our  little  world.  Though 
there  is  an  impression  to  the  contrary,  the  Zeitgeist 
is  not  attracted  exclusively  to  cities.  From  design 
in  our  County  Fair  fancy  work  to  our  attitude 
toward  the  home,  new  things  are  come  upon  us. 
To  be  sure,  we  do  not  trust  our  power.  We  cling 
to  our  "Well,  you  cant  change  human  nature" 
as  to  a  recipe,  though  it  does  change  before  our 
eyes.  If  it  were  only  that  impossible  plaques 
and  pillows  have  given  place  to  hammered  brass 
and  copper,  our  disregard  might  be  warrantable. 
But  now  when  one  praises  home  life,  home  cooking, 
home  training,  home  influence,  we  are  beginning 
to  say:  "Whose  home?"  And  the  sentimentali 
ties  do  not  give  place  to  reason  without  healthful 
cause.  And  when  of  late,  from  the  barber's 
children  s  lunch  basket,  the  young  professor  of 
our  village  took  out  the  heavy,  sunken  biscuits  of 
the  barber's  new  wife  and  threw  them  in  the  ash 
box,  even  the  barber's  wrathful  imprecations  could 
not  draw  our  sympathy  to  the  side  of  the  hearth, 
where  once  it  would  have  stood  upholding  domestic 
unsanctities. 

To  be  sure,  in  the  village  the  old  confusion  be 
tween  motherhood  and  domestic  service  still  main 
tains.  But  both  in  cities  and  in  villages  perhaps 


PREFACE  ix 

it  is  to-morrow  rather  than  to-day  that  we  shall 
see  women  free  from  kitchen  drudgery,  and  home 
economics  a  paid  profession,  such  as  nursing  has 
lately  become.  Though  when  one  of  us  said  this, 
at  a  meeting  of  the  Friendship  Village  Married 
Ladies*  Cemetery  Improvement  Sodality,  one  of  us 
rejoined : 

"  What !  Do  you  mean  that  a  womanly  woman 
wants  any  occupation  besides  housekeeping? 
Why,  I  love  my  dishpan!" 

And  the  burst  of  merriment  which  followed  was 
almost  a  surprise  to  those  who  laughed,  and  to 
whom  this  extreme  statement  had  unwittingly 
revealed  the  whole  absurdity. 

Already  in  the  village  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  get  maids,  even  though  many  have  entirely 
ceased  to  say  "hired  girl."  Night  after  night  we 
scan  the  Friendship  Village  Daily  Paper  (who 
shall  read  that  name  and  not  admit  that  we  live 
close  to  the  essentials?)  and  see  the  same  half 
dozen  "Wanted  .  .  .  for  General  Housework" 
appeals  drearily  repeated.  And  while  some  of 
us  merely  wonder  how  "Mis9  Whatever  is  getting 
along,  and  the  weather  what  it  is,  and  her  baby 
not  through  the  second  summer"  there  are  those 
of  us  who  feel  secret  thanksgiving  in  the  fact  that 
we,  too,  are  painfully  playing  our  part  in  forcing 
the  recognition  of  domestic  service  as  an  eight- 


x  PREFACE 

hour-a-day  profession.  And  "But  who  would 
answer  the  bell  evenings'?"  and  "Why,  none  of 
us  could  afford  to  keep  help  then!'9  sound  as 
unreasoning  as  they  did  when  apprentices  first 
changed  to  clerks. 

Even  the  village  theology  broadens  before  our 
eyes.  Few  can  be  found  who  do  not  admit  the 
anomaly  of  denominationalism,  even  while  they 
cling  to  it.  And  it  is  no  longer  considered  repre 
hensible  to  state  openly,  as  well  as  to  believe 
secretly,  that  the  truth  about  living  which  Jesus 
taught  has  been  told  in  certain  forms  whose  ancient 
interpretation  no  thinking  person  holds.  Some 
thing  of  the  glory  of  the  God-ward  striving  of  all 
religions  is  felt,  here  and  there,  in  the  village,  and 
now  and  then,  in  a  village  sitting-room,  you  come 
on  some  one  who  is  cherishing  a  vision  like  that 
of  John  on  Patmos,  and  saying  nothing. 

To  be  sure,  one  village  theologian  was  heard 
to  cry: 

"Empty  or  full,  I  tell  you  them  churches  are 
all  necessary,  every  one  of  'em.  And  if  we  had 
more  kinds  of  'em,  then  they'd  be  necessary  too." 

But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter 
with  this.  And  on  the  whole  there  is  more  food 
for  thought  in  another  observation  from  among  us : 

"We  always  used  to  think  Drug-store  Curtsie 
was  an  infidel.  And,  land,  there  he  is  making 


PREFACE  xi 

the  best  State  Senator  we  ever  had.  I  guess  we 
exaggerated  it  some,  maybe'1 

We  are  beginning  to  be  ashamed  of  charity  and 
to  see  that  our  half  dozen  dependent  families  need 
not  have  been  dependent,  if  their  own  gifts  had 
been  developed  and  their  industry  had  not  been 
ill-directed  or  exploited.  And  if  that  is  true  of 
the  Richer s  and  the  Hennings  and  the  Hasketts 
and  the  Bettses  and  the  Doles,  we  begin  to  suspect 
that  it  may  be  true  of  all  poverty.  We  are  begin 
ning  to  be  ashamed  of  many  another  inefficiency 
and  folly  which  anciently  we  took  for  granted  as 
necessary  evils.  Of  his  own  product  the  village 
brewer  says  openly :  "  The  time  is  coming  when 
they  wont  let  us  make  it.  And  I  dont  care  how 
soon  it  comes."  And  this  in  the  village,  where 
we  used  to  laugh  at  Keddie  Bingy,  drunken  and 
singing  on  Daphne  Street,  and  whose  wife  we 
censured  for  leaving  him  to  shift  for  himself! 

We  are  coming  to  applaud  divorce  when  shame 
or  faithlessness  or  disease  or  needless  invalidism 
have  attended  marriage,  and  for  a  village  woman 
to  continue  to  earn  her  livelihood  by  marriage 
under  these  circumstances  is  now  to  her  a  disgrace 
hardly  less  evident  than  that  of  her  city  sister. 
We  continue  to  cover  up  far  too  much,  just  as  in 
the  cities  they  cover  too  much.  But  we  do  mention 
openly  things  which  in  the  old  days  we  whispered 


Xll 


PREFACE 


or  guessed  at  or  whose  peril  we  nev£r  knew  at  all. 
And  when,  by  a  visiting  lecturer,  more  is  admitted 
than  we  would  ourselves  admit,  we  are  splendidly, 
if  softly,  triumphant  with:  "That  couldn't  have 
been  done  here  twenty  years  ago." 

To  be  sure,  with  some  of  the  new  terminology, 
we  have  had  desperate  battle. 

"I  don't  like  them  eugenics,"  one  of  us  said, 
"I  know  two  of  'em  that's  separated" 

Yet  on  the  whole  we  tell  one  another  that  our 
new  state  law  is  "going  to  be"  a  good  thing. 

Inevitably,  then,  romance  among  us  is  becom 
ing  something  else.  The  village  girl  no  longer 
waits  at  the  gate  in  a  blue  sash.  There  are  no 
gates.  She  is  wearing  belts.  And  I  heard  one 
of  the  girls  of  the  village  say : 

"A  girl  used  to  act  so  silly  about  being  happy. 
What  did  she  mean  by  that  —  being  made  love 
to  forever  by  somebody  forever  in  love  with  her? 
Well,  I  want  something  more  than  that  in  mine." 

And  there,  in  her  vague,  slang  speech  lay  the 
outline  of  the  shadow  that  is  pointing  women  to 
share  in  the  joys  of  the  race  and  the  delight  of  a 
chosen  occupation.  And  though  not  many  of 
us  here  in  the  village  will  say  as  much  as  that,  yet 
genetically  the  thing  goes  on:  Women  choose 
occupations,  develop  gifts,  sail  for  Europe,  refuse 
" good  offers"  even  if  these  do  hold  out  "support" 


PREFACE  xiii 

or  come  out  with  fine,  open  hatred  of  the  menial 
tasks  which  their  "womanliness"  once  forbade 
them  to  disavow.  And  beyond,  in  all  relevancy, 
there  opens  the  knowledge  that  motherhood  is  a 
thing  to  be  trained  for,  as  much  as  stenography  I 

Yet  meadows  sweet  with  hay,  and  twilights, 
and  firelight,  and  the  home  (around  the  evening 
lamp)  have  not  passed;  but  they  lie  close  to  a 
Romance  of  Life  now  coming  fast  upon  us,  away 
here  in  the  village  —  a  Romance  of  Life  as  much 
finer  than  sentimentality  as  modern  romance  is 
saner  than  chivalry. 

In  spite  of  our  Armory  and  our  strong  young 
guard,  we  are  quite  simply  for  peace,  and  believe 
that  it  will  come.  And  because  we  have  among 
us  a  few  of  other  races  whom  we  understand,  race 
prejudice  is  a  thing  which  never  troubles  us; 
and  I  think  that  we  could  slip  into  the  broadened 
race  concept  without  realizing  that  anything  had 
happened.  The  only  thunder  of  change  which 
does  not  echo  here  is  the  thunder  of  the  industrial 
conflict.  But  although  most  of  the  village  takes 
sides  quite  naively  with  the  newspaper  headlines, 
yet  that  is  chiefly  because  the  thing  lies  beyond  our 
experience,  and  because  —  like  the  dwellers  in 
cities  —  we  lack  imagination  to  visualize  what 
is  occurring.  As  far  as  our  experience  goes,  the. 
most  of  us  are  democratic.  But  when  there  arises 


xiv  PREFACE 

an  issue  transcending  our  experience,  our  tendency 
is  to  uncompromising  conservatism.  And  there 
is  hope  in  the  fact  that  politically  many  of  us  are 
free  and  think  for  ourselves,  and  smile  at  the 
abuse  that  is  heaped  upon  great  leaders,  and  under 
stand  with  thanksgiving  —  away  here  in  the  village 
—  how  often  the  demagogues  of  to-day  are  the 
demi-gods  of  to-morrow. 

We  well  know  that  with  ail  this  changing  attitude, 
we  are  losing  a  certain  homely  flavor.  Old 
possibilities,  especially  of  humor,  no  longer  have 
incidence.  Our  sophistication  somehow  includes 
our  laughter.  In  these  days,  in  what  village  could 
it  happen,  at  the  funeral  of  a  well-beloved  towns 
man,  with  the  church  filled  to  do  him  honor,  that 
the  minister  should  open  his  eyes  at  the  close  of  the 
prayer,  and  absently  say: 

"  The  contribution  will  now  be  received." 

Yet  that  and  the  consequent  agonized  signaling 
of  one  of  the  elders  are  within  my  memory,  and 
are  indelibly  there  because  they  occurred  at  the 
first  funeral  in  my  experience,  and  I  could  not 
account  for  the  elder's  perturbation. 

Or,  where  among  us  now  is  the  village  dignitary 
who  would  take  the  platform  to  speak  at  the  ob 
sequies  of  a  friend  and  would  begin  his  eulogy 
with : 

"I  have   always   had  a   great   respect  for  the 


PREFACE  xv 

deceased,  for  —  [pointing  with   his  thumb  down 
ward  at  the  coffin]  for  that  gentleman  down  there.9' 

Or,  when  a  deacon  with  squeaking  shoes  is 
passing  the  plate,  in  what  modern  village  church  is 
to  be  found  the  clergyman  who  will  call  out : 

"Brother,  you9 II  find  my  rubbers  there  in  the 
lecture  room.  You  best  slip  'em  on." 

Or  the  deacon  who  would  instantly  reply,  over- 
shoulder  : 

"I've  got  a  pair  of  me  own,"  and  so  go  serenely 
on,  squeaking,  to  the  last  pew. 

Yet  these  happened,  not  long  ago,  and  we  smile 
at  the  remembrance,  knowing  that  just  those  things 
could  not  take  place  among  us  now.  New  ab 
surdities  occur.  But  there  is  a  different  humor, 
even  of  misadventure  and  the  maladroit.  Instead 
of  deploring  the  old  days,  however,  I  think  that 
nearly  all  of  us  say  what  I  have  heard  a  woman  of 
ninety  saying  —  not,  "  Things  are  not  what  they 
used  to  be  in  the  old  days,"  but: 

"Well,  I'm  thankful  that  I've  lived  to  see  so 
many  things  different." 

That  is  the  way  in  which  we  grow  old  in  the 
little  towns  of  the  Middle  West.  We  are  not 
afraid  to  know  that  old  ways  of  laughter  and  old 
flavors  of  incident  depart,  with  the  old  ills.  Since 
disease  and  marching  armies  and  the  like  are  to  • 
leave  us,  humor  and  sentimentalism  of  a  sort  and 


XVI 


PREFACE 


gold  lace  of  many  sorts  must  likewise  be  foregone. 
We  say:  "The  day  is  dead.  Long  be  the  day." 
May  we  not  boast  of  it?  For  such  adaptation 
would  not  be  wonderful  in  a  city,  where  impres 
sions  crowd  and  are  cut  off.  But  it  stands  for  a  spe 
cial  and  precious  form  of  vitality,  in  little  towns. 

It  is  for  this  acceptance  of  growth  that  our  days 
of  pioneering  together  and  our  slow  drawing  to 
gether  of  later  years  form  a  solid  basis.  For  we 
are  knit,  and  now  the  fabric  is  beginning  to  be 
woven  into  a  garment.  Some  are  alarmed  at  the 
lack  of  seams,  some  anxiously  question  the  color , 
some  shake  their  heads  and  say  that  it  will  never 
fit.  But  there  are  those  of  us  here  in  the  village 
who  think  that  we  understand. 

And  now  we  are  beginning  to  suspect  that  there 
is  more  to  understand  than  we  have  guessed.  For 
there  was  some  one  "From  Away"  who  came  to 
us  and  said: 

"  Your  little  town  is  a  piece  of  to-morrow. 
Once  a  village  was  a  source  of  quiet  and  content 
and  prettiness.  Once  a  village  was  withdrawn 
from  what  is  going  forward  in  the  world.  But 
now  the  village  is  the  very  source  of  our  salvation, 
social  and  artistic.  It  is  not  that  we  are  finding 
humanity  at  its  best  in  the  villages,  but  that  there 
humanity  is  at  the  point  where  it  is  most  in  type. 
And  in  this  lie  the  hidings  of  our  power." 


PREFACE  xvii 

We  listened,  not  all  of  us  believing.  We  were 
used  to  being  praised  for  our  cedar  fenceposts, 
our  mossy  roofs,  our  bothersome,  low-hanging 
elm  boughs,  even,  of  late,  for  our  irregular  streets 
and  our  creamy  brick.  But  in  our  hearts  we  had 
been  feeling  apologetic  that  we  had  not  more  two- 
storey  shops,  not  more  folk  who  go  away  in  Sum 
mer,  and  not  even  one  limousine.  And  now  we 
were  hearing  that  we  are  playing  a  part  social, 
artistic,  which  no  city  can  play  ! 

It  is  true  that  from  the  days  of  those  old  happen 
ings  which  I  have  been  recounting,  down  to  now, 
the  form  of  our  self-expression  has  changed  some 
what,  its  quality,  never.  Always  we  have  been 
ourselves,  simply  and  unreservedly.  Not  boldly 
ourselves,  for  we  do  not  know  that  there  is  any 
thing  to  be  bold  about.  But  in  the  small  things, 
quite  simply  ourselves.  And  once  I  would  have 
called  that  a  negative  quality.  .  .  . 

But  what  of  this  salvation,  social  and  artistic, 
and  how  are  these  to  be  fostered  by  our  one  char 
acteristic?  And  with  that,  the  cries  of  the  world, 
from  art,  from  life,  are  in  one's  ears:  Against 
imitation,  against  artificiality,  against  seeing  the 
thing  as  a  thousand  others  have  seen  it  and  saying 
it  as  a  thousand  others  have  said  it,  against  mov 
ing  in  a  mass  which  has  won  the  right  to  no  social 
adhesion,  but  instead  stupidly  coheres,  and  does 


xviii  PREFACE 

its  thinking  by  bad  proxies.  And  we  —  who  do 
already  let  ourselves  be  ourselves  —  who  knows 
what  contribution  we  may  be  bringing,  now  that 
there  have  come  upon  us  these  new  reactions  to 
convention,  these  slow  new  freedoms  of  belief? 

There  in  the  cities,  humanity  is  in  the  melting 
pot,  we  say ;  and  the  figure  is  that  of  countless 
specializations  dissolved  in  one  general  mass.  We 
revert  to  type  individually,  but  we  advance  to  type 
collectively.  Unquestionably  this  collective  ad 
vance  is  a  part  of  experience.  But  it  is  not  an 
ultimate  of  experience.  Somewhere  there  beyond, 
shining,  is  a  new  individualism,  whose  incarna 
tions  shall  flow  to  no  melting  pot,  but  instead  shall 
cling  together,  valued  for  their  differentiation,  and 
like  a  certain  precious  form  of  life,  low  in  the  scale, 
shall  put  out  a  thousand  filaments,  and  presently 
move  away  together,  a  unit. 

Already  the  individual  experiences  this  progres 
sion  —  that  is,  he  does  if  he  does!  —  and,  through 
his  own  unique  value,  wins  back  in  later  life  to 
that  simplicity  which  is  every  one's  birthright.  It 
is  Nietzsche's  threefold  metamorphosis  of  the 
spirit:  First  the  camel,  then  the  lion,  last  the 
child.  What  if,  standing  in  that  simplicity,  at 
the  point  where  humanity  is  most  in  type,  the  vil 
lage  does  open  the  social  and  artistic  outlook  of 
To-morrow  ? 


PREFACE 


xix 


Some  of  us  believe.  Some  of  us  say:  "What 
if  the  federation  of  the  world  is  to  begin  in  the  little 
towns?  What  if  it  is  beginning  there  now  ..." 

" A  village  is  nothing  but  a  little  something 
broke  off  from  a  city"  says  Calliope  Marsh, 
t(  only  it  never  started  in  hitched  to  the  city  in  the 
first  place.  And  that  makes  all  the  difference" 

It  is  Calliope  Marsh  who  tells,  in  her  own  speech, 
these  Neighborhood  Stories.  And  if  she  were 
given  to  selecting  texts,  I  think  that  she  would  have 
selected  one  which  says  that  life  is  something  other 
than  that  which  we  believe  it  to  be. 

PORTAGE,  WISCONSIN, 
August,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACE 

I.  A  GREAT  TREE i 

II.  EXIT  CHARITY 27 

III.  THE  TIME  HAS  COME 56 

IV.  THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE         ...  90 
V.  THE  FLOOD 124 

VI.  THE  PARTY 157 

VII.  THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS 183 

VIII.  THE  PRODIGAL  GUEST 216 

IX.  MR.    DOMBLEDON 226 

X.  HUMAN 258 

XI.  THE  HOMECOMING 275 


NEIGHBORHOOD    STORIES 

A  GREAT  TREE 

I  NEVER  had  felt  so  much  like  Christmas, 
said  Calliope  Marsh,  as  I  did  that  year. 

"I  wish't,"  I  says,  when  it  got  'most  time, 
"I  wish't  I  knew  somebody  to  have  a  Christ 
mas  tree  with." 

"Well,  Calliope  Marsh,"  says  Mis'  Post 
master  Sykes,  looking  surprised-on-purpose,  the 
way  she  does,  "ain't  there  enough  poor  and 
neglected  folks  in  this  world  to  please  anybody  ? " 

"I  didn't  say  have  a  Christmas  tree /or,"  I 
says  back  at  her;  "I  says  have  one  with" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that  differ 
ence,"  she  says,  "I'm  sure." 

"I  donno,"  I  says,  "as  I  know  either.  But 
there  is  a  difference,  somewhere.  I'd  kind  of 
like  to  have  a  tree  with  folks  this  year." 

"Why  don't  you  help  on  your  church  tree  ?" 
Mis'  Sykes  ask'  me.  "They're  going  to  spend 
quite  a  little  money  on  theirs  this  year." 

"I  hate  to  box  Christmas  up  in  a  church," • 
I  savs. 


2  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Why,  Calliope  Marsh!"  she  says,  shocked. 

I  didn't  want  to  hurt  her  feelings  —  I  ain't 
never  one  of  those  that  likes  to  throw  their 
idees  in  folks's  faces  and  watch  folks  jump  back. 
So  I  tried  to  talk  about  something  else,  but  she 
went  right  on,  trying  her  best  to  help  me  out. 

"The  ward  schools  is  each  going  to  have  a 
tree  this  year,  I  hear,"  she  says.  "Why  don't 
you  go  in  on  your  ward,  Calliope,  and  help 
out  there  ?  They'd  be  real  glad  of  help,  you 
know." 

"I  hate  to  divide  Christmas  off  into  wards," 
I  says  to  her. 

"Well,  then,  go  in  with  a  family,"  she  says; 
"any  of  us'll  be  real  glad  to  have  you,"  she 
adds,  generous.  "We  would.  Come  to  ours 
—  we're  going  to  have  a  great  big  tree  for  the 
children.  I've  been  stringing  the  pop-corn  and 
cutting  the  paper  for  it  whenever  I  got  an  odd 
minute.  The  Holcombs,  they're  going  to  have 
one  too  —  and  Mis'  Uppers  and  Mis'  Merri- 
man  and  even  the  Hubbelthwaits  and  Abigail 
Arnold,  for  her  little  nieces.  I  never  see  a  year 
when  everybody  was  going  to  celebrate  so  nice. 
Come  on  with  one  of  us,  why  don't  you  ?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "mebbe  I  will.  I'll  see.  I 
don't  know  yet  what  I  will  do,"  I  told  her. 
And  I  went  off  down  the  street.  What  I  wanted 


A  GREAT  TREE  3 

to  say  was,  "I  hate  to  box  Christmas  up  in  a 
family,"  but  I  didn't  quite  dare  —  yet. 

Friendship  Village  ain't  ever  looked  much 
more  like  Christmas,  to  my  notion,  than  it 
did  that  December.  Just  the  right  snow  had 
come  —  and  no  more ;  and  just  the  right  cold 
—  and  no  more.  The  moon  was  getting  along 
so's  about  the  night  of  the  twenty-fifth  it  was 
going  to  loom  up  big  and  gold  and  warm  over 
the  fields  on  the  flats,  where  it  always  comes 
up  in  winter  like  it  had  just  edged  around  there 
to  get  sort  of  a  wide  front  yard  for  its  big 
show,  where  the  whole  village  could  have  a 
porch  seat. 

You  know  when  you  live  in  a  village  you 
always  know  whether  the  moon  is  new  or  to 
the  full  or  where  it  is  and  when  it's  going  to 
be;  but  when  you  live  in  a  city  you  just  look 
up  in  the  sky  some  night  and  say  "Oh,  that's 
so,  there's  the  moon,"  and  go  right  on  think 
ing  about  something  else.  Here  in  the  village 
that  December  everything  was  getting  ready, 
deliberate,  for  a  full-moon  Christmas,  like  long 
ago.  The  moon  and  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
and  all  them  public  things,  was  doing  their 
best,  together,  for  our  common  Christmas.  All 
but  us.  It  seemed  like  all  of  us  humans  was 
working  for  it  separate. 


4  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Tramping  along  there  in  the  snow  that  night, 
I  thought  over  what  Mis'  Sykes  had  said,  and 
about  all  the  places  she'd  mentioned  over  was 
going  to  have  Christmas  trees.  And  I  looked 
along  to  the  houses,  most  of  'em  lying  right 
there  on  Daphne  Street,  where  they  were  going 
to  have  'em  —  I  could  see  'em  all,  one  tree  after 
another,  lighted  and  streaming  from  house  to 
house  all  up  and  down  Daphne  Street,  just 
the  way  they  were  going  to  look. 

And  then  there  was  the  little  back  streets, 
and  the  houses  down  on  the"  flats,  where  there 
wouldn't  be  any  trees  nor  much  of  any  Christ 
mas.  Of  course,  as  Mis'  Sykes  had  said,  the 
poor  and  the  neglected  are  always  with  us  — 
yet ;  but  I  didn't  want  to  pounce  down  on 
any  of  'em  with  a  bag  of  fruit  and  a  box  of 
animal  crackers  and  set  and  watch  'em. 

That  wasn't  what  I  meant  by  having  a  Christ 
mas  with  somebody. 

"There'd  ought  to  be  some  place — "  I  was 
beginning  to  think,  when  right  along  where  I 
was,  by  the  Market  Square,  I  come  on  five  or 
six  children,  kicking  around  in  the  snow.  It 
was  'most  dark,  but  I  could  just  make  'em  out : 
Eddie  Newhaven,  Arthur  Mills,  Lily  Dorron, 
and  two-three  more. 

"Hello,   folks,"    I    says,    "what   you   doing? 


A  GREAT  TREE  5 

Having  a  carnival?"  Because  it's  on  the 
Market  Square  that  carnivals  and  some  little 
circuses  and  things  that  belongs  to  everybody 
is  usually  celebrated. 

Little  Arthur  Mills  spoke  up.  "No,"  he 
says,  "we  was  just  playing  we's  selling  a  load 
of  Christmas  trees." 

"Christmas  trees,"  I  says.  "Why,  that's 
so.  This  is  where  they  always  bring  'em  to 
sell  —  big  load  of  'em  for  everybody,  ain't 
it?"  ;  l 

"They're  going  to  bring  an  awful  big  load 
here  this  time,"  says  Eddie  Newhaven  —  "big 
enough  for  everybody  in  town  to  have  one. 
Most  of  the  fellows  is  going  to  have  'em  —  us 
and  Ned  Backus  and  the  Cartwrights  and 
Joe  Tyrril  and  Lifty  —  all  of  'em." 

"My,"  I  says,  "what  a  lot  of  Christmas 
trees  !  Why,  if  they  was  set  along  by  the  curb 
stone  here  on  Daphne  Street,"  I  says,  just  to 
please  the  children  and  make  a  little  talk  with 
'em,  "why,  the  line  of  'em  would  reach  all  up 
and  down  the  town,"  I  says.  "Wouldn't  that 
be  fun?" 

Little  Lily  claps  her  hands. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  cries,  "wouldn't  that  be  fun  ? 
With  pop-corn  strings  all  going  from  one  to 
the  other  ?" 


6  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"It  would  be  a  grand  sight,"  says  I,  looking 
down  across  the  Market  Square.  There,  hang 
ing  all  gold  and  quiet,  like  it  didn't  think  it 
amounted  to  much,  right  over  the  big  cedar-of- 
Lebanon-looking  tree  in  the  Square,  was  the 
moon,  crooked  to  a  horn. 

"Once,"  says  Eddie  Newhaven,  "when  they 
was  selling  the  Christmas  trees  here,  they  kept 
right  on  selling  'em  after  dark.  And  they 
stood  'em  around  here  and  put  a  little  light  in 
each  one.  It  was  awful  nice.  Wouldn't  it 
be  nice  if  they'd  do  that  all  over  the  Square 
some  time  !" 

"It  would  be  a  grand  sight,"  says  I  again, 
"but  one  that  the  folks  in  this  town  would 
never  have  time  for.  .  .  ." 

While  I  spoke  I  was  looking  down  across 
Market  Square  again  toward  the  moon  hang 
ing  over  the  cedar-of-Leb anon-looking  tree. 

"There's  a  pretty  good-looking  tree  there 
already,"  I  says  idle.  "What  a  grand  thing 
it  would  be  lit  up,"  says  I,  for  not  much  of  any 
reason  —  only  to  keep  the  talk  going  with  the 
children.  Then  something  went  through  me 
from  my  head  to  my  feet.  "Why  not  light  it 
some  time  ?"  I  says. 

The  children  set  up  a  little  shout  —  part 
because  they  liked  it,  part  because  they  thought 


A  GREAT  TREE  7 

such  a  thing  could  never  be.  I  laughed  with 
'em,  and  I  went  on  up  the  street  —  but  all  the 
time  something  in  me  kept  on  saying  something, 
all  hurried  and  as  if  it  meant  it.  And  little 
ends  of  ideas,  and  little  jagged  edges  of  other 
ideas,  and  plans  part  raveled  out  that  you 
thought  you  could  knit  up  again,  and  long, 
sharp  motions,  a  little  something  like  light, 
kept  going  through  my  head  and  going  through 
it. 

Down  to  the  next  corner  I  met  Ben  Cory, 
that  keeps  the  livery-stable  and  sings  bass  to 
nearly  everybody's  funeral  and  to  other  public 
occasions. 

"Ben,"  I  says  excited,  though  I  hadn't 
thought  anything  about  this  till  that  minute, 
"Ben  —  you  getting  up  any  Christmas  Eve 
Christmas  carols  to  sing  this  year  ?" 

He  had  a  new  string  of  sleigh-bells  over  his 
shoulder,  and  he  give  it  a  shift,  I  recollect,  so's 
they  all  jingled. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "I  did  allow  to  do  it.  But 
I've  spoke  to  one  or  two,  and  they  donno's 
they  can  do  it.  Some  has  got  to  sing  to  churches 
earlier  in  the  evening  and  they  donno's  they 
want  to  tune  up  all  night.  And  the  most  has 
got  to  be  home  for  family  Christmas." 

"There  ain't,"  I  says,  "no  manner  o'  doubt 


8  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

about  the  folks  that'd  be  glad  to  listen,  is  there, 
provided  you  had  the  singers  ?" 

"Oh,  sure,"  he  says.  "Folks  shines  up  to 
music  consider'ble,  Christmas  Eve.  It  —  sort 
of --well,  it " 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "I  know.  It  does,  don't  it? 
Well,  Ben  Cory,  you  get  your  Christmas-carol 
singers  together  and  a-caroling,  and  I'll  under 
take  that  there  sha'n't  nothing  much  stand 
in  the  way  of  their  being  out  on  Christmas 
Eve.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

His  face  lit  up,  all  jolly  and  hearty. 

"Why,  sure  it's  a  bargain,"  he  says.  "I'll 
get  'em.  I  wanted  to,  only  I  didn't  want  to 
carol  'em  any  more  than  they  wanted  to  be 
caroled.  I'll  get  'em,"  he  says,  and  gives  his 
bells  a  hunch  that  made  'em  ring  all  up  and 
down  Daphne  Street  —  that  the  moon  was 
looking  down  at  just  as  if  it  was  public  property 
and  not  all  made  up  of  little  private  plans  with 
just  room  enough  for  us  four  and  no  more,  or 
figures  to  that  effect. 

I  donno  if  you've  ever  managed  any  kind 
of  a  revolution  ? 

They's  two  kinds  of  revolutions.  One  breaks 
off  of  something  that's  always  been.  You  pick 
up  the  broke  piece  and  try  to  throw  it  away 
to  make  room  for  something  that's  growing 


A  GREAT  TREE  9 

out  of  the  other  part.  And  'most  everybody 
will  begin  to  tell  you  that  the  growing  piece 
ain't  any  good,  but  that  the  other  part  is  the 
kind  you  have  always  bought  and  that  you'd 
better  save  it  and  stick  it  back  on.  But  then 
they's  the  other  kind  of  revolution  that  backs 
away  from  something  that's  always  been  and 
looks  at  it  a  little  farther  off  than  it  ever  see  it 
before,  and  says  :  "Let's  us  move  a  little  way 
around  and  pay  attention  to  this  thing  from  a  new 
spot."  And  real  often,  if  you  put  it  that  way, 
they's  enough  people  willing  to  do  that,  because 
they  know  they  can  go  right  back  afterward  and 
stand  in  the  same  old  place  if  they  want  to. 

Well,  this  last  was  the  kind  of  a  revolution 
I  took  charge  of  that  week  before  Christmas. 
I  got  my  plans  and  my  ideas  and  my  notions 
all  planned  and  thought  and  budded,  and  then 
I  presented  'em  around,  abundant. 

The  very  next  morning  after  I'd  seen  the  chil 
dren  I  started  out,  while  I  had  kind  of  a  glow 
to  drape  around  the  difficulties  so's  I  couldn't 
see  'em.  I  went  first  to  the  store-keepers, 
seeing  Christmas  always  seems  to  hinge  and 
hang  on  what  they  say  and  do.  And  I  went 
to  Eppleby  Holcomb,  because  I  knew  he'd 
see  it  like  I  done  —  and  I  wanted  the  brace 
of  being  agreed  with,  like  you  do. 


io  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Eppleby's  store  was  all  decorated  up  with 
green  cut  paper  and  tassels  and  turkey-red 
calico  poinsettias,  and  it  looked  real  nice  and 
tasty.  And  the  store  was  full  of  the  country 
trade.  The  little  overhead  track  that  took 
the  bundles  had  broke  down  just  at  the  wrong 
minute,  and  old  rich  Mis'  Wiswell's  felt  soles 
had  got  stuck  half-way,  and  Eppleby  himself 
was  up  on  top  of  a  counter  trying  to  rescue  'em 
for  her,  while  she  made  tart  remarks  below. 
When  he'd  fished  'em  out  and  wrapped  'em  up 
for  her, 

"Eppleby,"  I  says,  "would  you  be  willing 
to  shut  up  shop  on  Christmas  Eve,  or  wouldn't 
you?" 

He  looked  kind  of  startled.  "It's  a  pretty 
good  night  for  trade,  you  know,  Calliope?" 
says  he  —  doubtful. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  says,  "it  is.  But  everybody 
that's  going  to  give  presents  to  people'll  give 
presents  to  people.  And  if  the  stores  ain't 
open  Christmas  Eve,  folks'll  buy  'em  when 
the  stores  is  open.  Is  that  sense,  or  ain't  it  ?" 

He  knew  it  was.  And  when  I  told  him  what 
I'd  got  hold  of,  stray  places  in  my  head,  he 
says  if  the  rest  would  shut  he'd  shut,  and  be 
glad  of  it.  Abigail  Arnold  done  the  same  about 
her  home  bakery,  and  the  Gekerjecks,  and  two- 


A  GREAT  TREE  11 

three  more.     But  Silas  Sykes,  that  keeps  the 
post-office  store,  he  was  firm. 

"If  that  ain't  woman-foolish,"  he  says,  "I 
donno  what  is.  You  ain't  no  more  idee  of 
business  than  so  many  cats.  No,  sir.  I  don't 
betray  the  public  by  cutting  'em  off  of  one 
evening's  shopping  like  that." 

It  made  a  nice  little  sentence  to  quote,  and 
I  quoted  it  consider'ble.  And  the  result  was, 
the  rest  of  'em,  that  knew  Silas,  head  and  heart, 
finally  says,  all  right,  he  could  keep  open  if 
he  wanted  to,  and  enjoy  himself,  and  they'd 
all  shut  up.  I  honestly  think  they  kind  of 
appreciated,  in  a  nice,  neighborly  way,  making 
Silas  feel  mean  —  when  he'd  ought  to. 

It  was  a  little  harder  to  make  the  Sunday- 
school  superintendents  see  the  thing  that  I 
had  in  my  head.  Of  course,  when  a  thing  has 
been  the  way  it  has  been  for  a  good  while,  you 
can't  really  blame  people  for  feeling  that  it's 
been  the  way  it  ought  to  be.  Feelings  seems 
made  that  way.  Our  superintendent  has  been 
our  superintendent  for  'most  forty  years  — 
ever  since  the  church  was  built  —  and  of  course 
his  thoughts  is  kind  of  turned  to  bone  in  some 
places,  naturally. 

His  name  is  Jerry  Bemus,  and  he  keeps  a» 
little  harness  shop  next  door  to  the  Town  Hall 


12  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

that's  across  from  Market  Square.  When  I 
went  in  that  day  he  was  resting  from  making 
harnesses,  and  he  was  practising  on  his  cornet. 
He  can  make  a  bugle  call  real  nice  —  you  can 
often  hear  it,  going  up  and  down  Daphne  Street 
in  the  morning,  and  when  I'm  down  doing  my 
trading  I  always  like  to  hear  it  —  it  gives  me 
kind  of  a  nice,  old-fashioned  feeling,  like  when 
Abigail  Arnold  fries  doughnuts  in  the  back  of 
the  Home  Bakery  and  we  can  all  smell  'em, 
out  in  the  road. 

"Jerry,"  I  says,  "how  much  is  our  Sunday- 
school  Christmas  tree  going  to  cost  us  ?" 

Jerry's  got  a  wooden  leg,  and  he  can  not 
remember  not  to  try  to  cross  it  over  the  other 
one.  He  done  that  now,  and  give  it  up. 

"We  calc'late  about,  twenty-five  dollars," 
says  he,  proud. 

"What  we  going  to  do  to  celebrate  ?" 

"Well,"  he  says,  "have  speaking  pieces  — 
we  got  a  program  of  twenty  numbers  already," 
says  he,  pleased.  "And  a  trimmed  tree,  and 
an  orange,  and  a  bag  of  nuts  and  candy  for 
every  child,"  he  says. 

"All  the  other  churches  is  going  to  do  the 
same,"  I  says.  "Five  trees  and  five  programs 
and  five  sets  of  stuff  all  around.  And  all  of 
'em  on  Christmas  Eve,  when  you'd  think  we'd 


A  GREAT  TREE  13 

all  sort  of  draw  together  instead  of  setting  apart, 
in  cliques.  Land,"  I  says  out,  "that  first 
Christmas  Eve  wouldn't  the  angels  have  stopped 
singing  and  wept  in  the  sky  if  they  could  of  seen 
what  we'd  do  to  it  !" 

"Hush,  Calliope,"  says  Jerry  Bemus,  shocked. 
"They  ain't  no  need  to  be  sacrilegious,  is  they  ?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  says  I;  "we've  been  it  so  long 
a'ready,  worshiping  around  in  sections  like 
Hottentots.  Well,  now,"  I  says,  "do  you 
honestly  think  we've  all  chose  the  best  way 
to  go  at  Christmas  Eve  for  the  children,  filling 
them  up  with  colored  stuff  and  getting  their 
stummicks  all  upset  ?" 

We  had  quite  a  little  talk  about  it,  back  and 
forth,  Jerry  and  me.  And  all  of  a  sudden, 
while  I  was  trying  my  best  to  make  him  see  what 
I  saw,  I  happened  to  notice  his  bugle  again. 

"There  ain't  no  thrill  in  none  of  it,"  I  was 
saying  to  him.  "Not  half  so  much,"  I  says, 
"as  there  is  in  your  bugle.  When  I  hear  that 
go  floating  up  and  down  the  street,  I  always 
kind  of  feel  like  it  was  announcing  something. 
To  my  notion,"  I  says,  "it  could  announce 
Christmas  to  this  town  far  better  than  forty- 
'leven  little  separate  trimmed-up  trees.  .  .  . 
Why,  Jerry,"  I  says  out  sudden,  "listen  to 
what  I've  thought  of.  .  .  ." 


I4  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

A  little  something  had  come  in  my  head  that 
minute,  unexpected,  that  fitted  itself  into  the 
rest  of  my  plan.  And  it  made  Jerry  say,  pretty 
soon,  that  he  was  willing  to  go  with  me  to  see 
the  other  superintendents ;  and  we  done  so 
that  very  day.  Ain't  it  funny  how  big  things 
work  out  by  homely  means  -  -  by  homely  means  ? 
Sole  because  the  choir-leader  in  one  choir  had 
resigned  because  the  bass  in  that  choir  was 
the  bass  in  that  choir,  and  so  they  didn't  have 
anybody  there  to  train  their  Christmas  music, 
and  sole  because  another  congregation  was 
hard  up  and  was  having  to  borrow  its  Christ 
mas  celebration  money  out  of  the  foreign  mis 
sionary  fund  —  we  got  'em  to  see  sense.  And 
then  the  other  two  joined  in. 

The  schools  were  all  right  from  the  first,  being 
built,  like  they  are,  on  a  basis  of  belonging  to 
everybody,  same  as  breathing  and  one-two  other 
public  utilities,  and  nothing  dividing  anybody 
from  anybody.  And  I  begun  to  feel  like  life 
and  the  world  was  just  one  great  bud,  longing 
to  open,  so  be  it  could  get  enough  care. 

The  worst  ones  to  get  weaned  away  from  a 
perfectly  selfish  way  of  observing  Christ's  birth 
day  was  the  private  families.  Land,  land,  I 
kept  saying  to  myself  them  days,  we  all  of  us 
act  like  we  was  studying  kindergarten  mathe- 


A  GREAT  TREE  15 

matics.  We  count  up  them  that's  closest  to 
us,  and  we  can't  none  of  us  seem  to  count 
much  above  ten. 

Not  all  of  'em  was  that  way,  though.  Well 
-  if  it  just  happens  that  you  live  in  any  town 
whatever  in  the  civilized  world,  I  think  you'll 
know  about  what  I  had  said  to  me. 

On  the  one  hand  it  went  about  like  this, 
from  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady  and  the  Hoi- 
combs  and  the  Hubbelthwaits  and  a  lot  more : 

"Well,  land  knows,  it'd  save  us  lots  of  back- 
aching  work  —  but  —  will  the  children  like 
it?" 

"Like  it?"  I  says.  "Try  'em.  Trust  'em 
without  trying  'em  if  you  want  to.  I  would. 
Remember,"  I  couldn't  help  adding,  "you  like 
to  be  with  the  children  a  whole  lot  oftener  than 
they  like  to  be  with  you.  What  they  like  is 
to  be  together." 

And,  "Well,  do  you  honestly  think  it'll  work  ? 
I  don't  see  how  it  can  —  anything  so  differ'nt." 

And,  "Well,  they  ain't  any  harm  trying  it 
one  year,  as  I  can  see.  That  can't  break  up 
the  holidays,  as  I  know  of." 

But  the  other  side  had  figured  it  out  just 
like  the  other  side  of  everything  always  figures. 

"Calliope,"  says  Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes,  "are 
you  crazy-headed  ?  What's  your  idee  ?  Ain't 


16  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

things  all  right  the  way  they've  always  been 
done?" 

"Well,"  says  I,  conservative,  "not  all  of  'em. 
Not  wholesale,  I  wouldn't  say." 

"But  you  can't  go  changing  things  like  this," 
she  told  me.  "What'll  become  of  Christmas  ?" 

"Christmas,"  I  says,  "don't  need  you  or 
me,  Mis'  Sykes,  to  be  its  guardians.  All  Christ 
mas  needs  is  for  us  to  get  out  of  its  way,  and  leave 
it  express  what  it  means." 

"But  the  home  Christmas,"  she  says,  'most 
like  a  wail.  "Would  you  do  away  with  that  ?" 

Then  I  sort  of  turned  on  her.  I  couldn't 
help  it. 

"Whose  home?"  I  says  stern.  "If  it's  your 
home  you  mean,  or  any  of  the  thousands  of 
others  like  it  where  Christmas  is  kept,  then  you 
know,  and  they  all  know,  that  nothing  on  earth 
can  take  away  the  Christmas  feeling  and  the 
Christmas  joy  as  long  as  you  want  it  to  be 
there.  But  if  it's  the  homes  you  mean  —  and 
there's  thousands  of  'em  —  where  no  Christmas 
ever  comes,  you  surely  ain't  arguing  to  keep 
them  the  way  they've  been  kept  ?" 

But  she  continued  to  shake  her  head. 

"You  can  do  as  you  like,  of  course,"  she 
said,  "and  so  can  everybody  else.  It's  their 
privilege.  But  as  for  me,  I  shall  trim  my 


A  GREAT  TREE  17 

little  tree  here  by  our  own  fireside.  And  here 
we  shall  celebrate  Christmas  —  Jeddie  and  Nora 
and  father  and  me." 

"Why  can't  you  do  both?"  I  says.  "I 
wouldn't  have  you  give  up  your  fireside  end 
of  things  for  anything  on  earth.  But  why 
can't  you  do  both  ?" 

Mis'  Sykes  didn't  rightly  seem  to  know  — 
at  least  she  didn't  say.  But  she  give  me  to 
understand  that  her  mind  run  right  along  in 
the  self-same  groove  it  had  had  made  for  it, 
cozy. 

Somehow,  the  longer  I  live,  the  less  sense  I 
seem  to  have.  There's  some  things  I've  learned 
from  twenty-five  to  thirty  times  in  my  life,  and 
yet  I  can't  seem  to  remember  them  no  more 
than  I  can  remember  whether  it's  sulphite  or 
sulphate  of  soda  that  I  take  for  my  quinsy. 
And  one  of  these  is  about  taking  things  casual. 

That  night,  for  instance,  when  I  come  round 
the  corner  on  to  Daphne  Street  at  half-past 
seven  on  Christmas  Eve,  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  have  to  waste  a  minute  or  two  standing  just 
where  the  bill-board  makes  a  shadow  for  the 
arc-light,  trying  to  get  used  to  the  idea  of  what 
we  were  doing  —  used  to  it  in  my  throat.  But 
there  wasn't  much  time  to  spend  that  way, 


18  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

being  there  were  things  to  do  between  then  and 
eight  o'clock,  when  we'd  told  'em  all  to  be  there. 
So  I  ran  along  and  tried  not  to  think  about  it 

—  except   the   work   part.     'Most   always,   the 
work  part  of  anything'll  steady  you. 

The  great  cedar-of-Lebanon-looking  tree, 
standing  down  there  on  the  edge  of  the  Market 
Square  and  acting  as  if  it  had  been  left  from 
some  long-ago  forest,  on  purpose,  had  been 
hung  round  with  lines  and  lines  of  strung  pop 
corn  —  the  kind  that  no  Christmas  tree  would 
be  a  Christmas  tree  without,  because  so  many, 
many  folks  has  set  up  stringing  it  nights  of 
Christmas  week,  after  the  children  was  in  bed, 
and  has  kept  it,  careful,  in  a  box,  so's  it'd  do 
for  next  year.  We  had  all  that  from  the  churches 

—  Methodist  and  Presbyterian   and  Episcopal 
and  Baptist   and   Catholic  pop-corn,   and  you 
couldn't  tell  'em  apart  at  all  when  you  got  'em 
on    the    tree.     The    festoons    showed    ghostly- 
white  in  the  dark  and  the  folks  showed  ghostly- 
black,  hurrying  back  and  forth  doing  the  last 
things. 

And  the  folks  was  coming  —  you  could  hear 
'em  all  along  Daphne  Street,  tripping  on  the 
bad  place  that  hadn't  been  mended  because 
it  was  right  under  the  arc-light,  and  coming 
over  the  hollow-sounding  place  by  Graham's 


A  GREAT  TREE  19 

drug-store,  and  coming  from  the  little  side 
streets  and  the  dark  back  streets  and  the  streets 
down  on  the  flats.  Some  of  'em  had  Christmas 
trees  waiting  at  home  —  the  load  had  been 
there  on.  the  Market  Square,  just  like  we  had 
let  it  be  there  for  years  without  seeing  that  the 
Market  Square  had  any  other  Christmas  uses 
—  and  a  good  many  had  bought  trees.  But 
a  good  many  more  had  decided  not  to  have 
any  —  only  just  to  hang  up  stockings ;  and 
to  let  the  great  big  common  Christmas  tree 
stand  for  what  it  stood  for,  gathering  most  of 
that  little  garland  of  Daphne  Street  trees  up 
into  its  living  heart. 

Over  by  the  bandstand  I  come  on  them  I'd 
been  looking  for  —  Eddie  Newhaven  and  Arthur 
Mills  and  Lily  Dorron  and  Sarah  and  Mollie 
and  the  Cartwrights  and  Lifty  and  six-eight 
more. 

"Hello,  folks,"  I  says.  "What  you  down 
here  for  ?  Why  ain't  you  home  ?" 

They  answered  all  together : 

"For  the  big  tree  !" 

"Are  you,  now?"  I  says  —  just  to  keep  on 
a-talking  to  'em.  "Whose  tree  ?" 

I  love  to  remember  the  way  they  answered.  % 
It  was  Eddie  Newhaven  that  said  it. 

"Why,  all  of  us's!"  he  said. 


20  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

All  of  us's!  I  like  to  say  it  over  when  they 
get  to  saying  "mine"  and  "theirs"  too  hard 
where  I  am. 

When  it  was  eight  o'clock  and  there  was 
enough  gathered  on  the  Square,  they  done  the 
thing  that  was  going  to  be  done,  only  nobody 
had  known  how  well  they  were  going  to  do  it. 
They  touched  the  button,  and  from  the  bottom 
branch  to  the  tip-top  little  cone,  the  big  old 
tree  came  alight,  just  like  it  knew  what  it  was 
all  about  and  like  it  had  come  out  of  the  ground 
long  ago  for  this  reason  —  only  we'd  never 
known.  Two  hundred  little  electric  lights  there 
were,  colored,  and  paid  for  private,  though  I 
done  my  best  to  get  the  town  to  pay  for  'em, 
like  it  ought  to  for  its  own  tree ;  but  they  was 
paid  for  private  —  yet. 

It  made  a  little  oh!  come  in  the  crowd  and 
run  round,  it  was  so  big  and  beautiful,  standing 
there  against  the  stars  like  it  knew  well  enough 
that  it  was  one  of  'em,  whether  we  knew  it  or 
not.  And  coming  up  across  the  flats,  big  and 
gold  and  low,  was  the  moon,  most  full,  like  it 
belonged,  too. 

"And  glory  shone  around,"  I  says  to  myself 
—  and  I  stood  there  feeling  the  glory,  outside 
and  in.  Not  my  little  celebration,  and  your 
little  celebration,  and  their  little  celebration, 


A  GREAT  TREE  21 

private,  that  was  costing  each  of  us  more  than 
it  ought  to  —  but  our  celebration,  paying  at 
tention  to  the  message  that  Christ  paid  atten 
tion  to. 

I  was  so  full  of  it  that  I  didn't  half  see  Ben 
Cory  and  his  carolers  come  racing  out  of  the 
dark.  They  was  all  fixed  up  in  funny  pointed 
hoods  and  in  cloaks  and  carrying  long  staves 
with  everybody's  barn-yard  lanterns  tied  on 
the  end  of  'em,  and  they  run  out  in  a  line  down 
to  the  tree,  and  they  took  hold  of  hands  and 
danced  around  it,  singing  to  their  voices'  top 
a  funny  old  tune,  one  of  them  tunes  that, 
whether  you've  ever  heard  it  before  or  not, 
kind  of  makes  things  in  you  that's  older  than 
you  are  yourself  wake  up  and  remember,  real 
plain. 

And  Jerry  Bemus  shouted  out  at  'em :  "  Sing 
it  again  —  sing  it  again!"  and  pounded  his 
wooden  leg  with  his  cane.  "Sing  it  again,  I 
tell  you.  I  ain't  heard  anybody  sing  that  for 
goin'  on  forty  years."  And  everybody  laughed, 
and  they  sung  it  again  for  him,  and  some  more 
songs  that  had  come  out  of  the  old  country 
that  a  little  bit  of  it  was  living  inside  everybody 
that  was  there.  And  while  they  were  singing, 
it  came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  about  another 
night,  'most  three  hundred  years  before,  when 


22  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

on  American  soil  that  lonesome  English  heart, 
up  there  in  Boston,  had  dreamed  ahead  to  a 
time  when  Christmas  would  come  here.  .  .  . 

"  But  faith  unrolls  the  future  scrolls ; 

Christmas  shall  not  die, 
Nor  men  of  English  blood  and  speech 
Forget  their  ancestry  —  " 

or  any  other  blood,  or  any  other  speech  that 
has  in  it  the  spirit  of  what  Christ  come  to  teach. 
And  that's  all  of  us.  And  it  felt  to  me  as  if 
now  we  were  only  just  beginning  to  take  out  our 
little  single,  lonely  tapers  and  carry  them  to 
light  a  great  tree. 

Then,  just  after  the  carols  died  down,  the 
thing  happened  that  we'd  planned  to  happen  : 
Over  on  one  side  the  choirs  of  all  the  churches, 
that  I  guess  had  never  sung  together  in  their 
lives  before,  though  they'd  been  singing  steadily 
about  the  self-same  things  since  they  was  born 
choirs,  begun  to  sing  — 

Silent  night,  holy  night. 

Think  of  it  —  down  there  on  the  Market 
Square  that  had  never  had  anything  sung  on 
it  before  except  carnival  tunes  and  circus  tunes. 
All  up  and  down  Daphne  Street  it  must  of 
sounded,  only  there  was  hardly  anybody  far 
off  to  hear  it,  the  most  of  'em  being  right  there 


A  GREAT  TREE  23 

with  all  of  us.  They  sung  it  without  anybody 
playing  it  for  'em  and  they  sung  it  from  first 
to  last. 

And  then  they  slipped  into  another  song  that 
isn't  a  Christmas  carol  exactly,  nor  not  any 
song  that  comes  in  the  book  under  "Christ 
mas,"  but  something  that  comes  in  just  as 
natural  as  if  it  was  another  name  for  what 
Christmas  was  --  "Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee," 
and  "Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  and  some  more. 
And  after  a  bar  or  two  of  the  first  one,  the  voices 
all  around  begun  kind  of  mumbling  and  hum 
ming  and  carrying  the  tunes  along  in  their 
throats  without  anybody  in  particular  starting 
'em  there,  and  then  they  all  just  naturally 
burst  out  and  sung  too. 

And  so  I  donno  who  done  it  —  whether  the 
choirs  had  planned  it  that  way,  or  whether 
they  just  thought  of  it  then,  or  whether  some 
body  in  the  crowd  struck  it  up  unbeknownst 
to  himself,  or  whether  the  song  begun  to  sing 
itself;  but  it  come  from  somewhere,  strong 
and  clear  and  real  —  a  song  that  the  children 
has  been  learning  in  school  and  has  been  teach 
ing  the  town  for  a  year  or  two  now,  sung  to  the 
tune  of  "Wacht  am  Rhein"  : 

The  crest  and  crowning  of  all  good  — 
Life's  common  goal  —  is  brotherhood. 


24  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

And  then  everybody  sung.  Because  that's 
a  piece  you  can't  sing  alone.  You  can  not 
sing  it  alone.  All  over  the  Market  Square 
they  took  it  up,  and  folks  that  couldn't  sing, 
and  me  that  can't  sing  a  note  except  when 
there's  nobody  around  that  would  recognize 
me  if  they  ever  saw  me  again  —  we  all  sung 
together,  there  in  the  dark,  with  the  tree  in  the 
midst. 

And  we  seemed  long  and  long  away  from 
the  time  when  the  leader  in  one  of  them  sing 
ing  choirs  had  left  the  other  choir  because  the 
bass  in  the  other  choir  was  the  bass  in  the 
other  choir.  And  it  was  like  the  Way  Things 
Are  had  suddenly  spoke  for  a  minute,  there  in 
the  singing  choirs  come  out  of  their  separate 
lofts,  and  in  all  the  singing  folks.  And  in  all 
of  us  —  all  of  us. 

Then  up  hopped  Eppleby  Holcomb  on  to  a 
box  in  front  of  the  tree,  and  he  calls  out : 

" Merry  Christmas!  Merry  Christmas  —  on 
the  first  annual  outdoor  Christmas-tree  cele 
bration  of  Friendship  Village  !" 

When  he  said  that  I  felt  —  well,  it  don't 
make  any  difference  to  anybody  how  I  felt; 
but  what  I  done  was  to  turn  and  make  for  the 
edge  of  the  crowd  just  as  fast  as  I  could.  And 
just  then  there  come  what  Eppleby's  words 


A  GREAT  TREE  25 

was  the  signal  for.  And  out  on  the  little  flag 
staff  balcony  of  the  Town  Hall  Jerry  Bemus 
stepped  with  his  bugle,  and  he  blew  it  shrill 
and  clear,  so  that  it  sounded  all  over  the  town, 
once,  twice,  three  times,  a  bugle-call  to  say  it 
was  Christmas.  We  couldn't  wait  till  twelve 
o'clock  —  we  are  all  in  bed  long  before  that 
time  in  Friendship  Village,  holiday  or  not. 

But  the  bugle-call  said  it  was  Christmas  just 
the  same.  Think  of  it  ...  the  bugle  that 
used  to  say  it  was  war.  And  the  same  minute 
the  big  tree  went  out,  all  still  and  quiet,  but 
to  be  lit  again  next  year  and  to  stay  a  living 
thing  in  between. 

When  I  stepped  on  to  Daphne  Street,  who 
should  I  come  face  to  face  with  but  Mis'  Post 
master  Sykes.  I  was  feeling  so  glorified  over, 
that  I  never  thought  of  its  being  strange  that 
she  was  there.  But  she  spoke  up,  just  the  same 
as  if  I'd  said:  "Why,  I  thought  you  wasn't 
coming  near." 

"The  children  was  bound  to  come,"  she  says, 
"so  I  had  to  bring  'em." 

"Yes,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "the  children 
know.  They  know." 

And  I  even  couldn't  feel  bad  when  I  passed 
the  post-office  store  and  see  Silas  sitting  in  there  * 
all  sole  alone  —  the  only  lit  store  in  the  street. 


26  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

I  knew  he'd  be  on  the  Market  Square  the  next 
year. 

They  went  singing  through  all  the  streets 
that  night,  Ben  Cory  and  his  carolers.  "Silent 
night,  holy  night"  come  from  my  front  gate 
when  I  was  'most  asleep.  It  was  like  the 
whole  town  was  being  sung  to  by  something 
that  didn't  show.  And  when  the  time  comes 
that  this  something  speaks  clear  all  the  time, 
—  well,  it  ain't  a  very  far-off  time,  you  know. 


EXIT  CHARITY 

"YES,  sir,"  said  Silas  Sykes,  "we  got  to  get 
some  charity  goin'  in  this  town." 

"Charity,"  I  says  over,  meditative.  "How 
do  you  mean,  Silas  ?" 

"How  do  I  mean?"  says  Silas,  snappy. 
"Don't  you  know  your  Bible,  woman  ?" 

"I  ain't  so  sure  I  do  as  I  use'  to  be,"  I  told 
him.  "I  use'  to  think  charity  was  givin'  things 
away.  Then  I  had  a  spell  I  use'  to  think  it 
was  coverin'  up  their  faults.  Now  I  dunno  as 
I'm  clear  what  it  is." 

Silas  bridled  some  and  snorted  soft. 

"Charity,"  says  he,  "charity,  Calliope  Marsh, 
is  doin'  nice  things  for  folks." 

"Doin'  nice  things  for  folks,"  I  says  over  — 
and  I  wanted  to  remember  them  words  of  Silas 
and  I  longed  to  feed  'em  to  him  some  time.  But 
I  just  took  up  my  pound  of  prunes  and  went  out 
the  post-office  store,  thoughtful. 

Outside  on  the  walk,  I  come  on  Absalom.     He 
stood  kicking  his  heels  on  the  hydrant  and  look 
ing  up  and  down  the  street  like  he  was  waiting, 
for  something  that  there  wasn't  any  such  thing, 

27 


28  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

and  he  knew  it.  Absalom  Ricker  he  was,  that 
has  work  in  the  canning  factory,  when  any. 
I'd  been  wantin'  to  see  him. 

"Evenin',  Ab,"  says  I.     "How's  Gertie  ?" 

"She  ain't  on  her  feet  yet,"  says  he,  rueful. 

"How's  your  mother's  rheumatism  ?" 

"It  ain't  in  her  fingers  yet,"  says  he,  bright. 

"How'reyou?" 

"Oh,  me!"  he  says.     "I'm  rosy." 

"Your  arm,"  says  I;  "will  it  let  you  go  to 
work  yet  ?" 

"Not  yet,"  he  says,  "the  thermometer  actin' 
up  zero,  so.  But  still,  I'm  rosy  —  rosy." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "bein'  you're  more  rosy  than 
busy,  I  wonder  if  you  couldn't  do  something 
for  us  ladies.  You  know,"  I  says,  "that  nice, 
new,  galvanized  iron  garbage  tank  us  ladies 
bought  and  run  one  season,  collectin'  up  gar 
bage  ?  Well,  I  dunno  but  what  we've  got  to 
sell  it,  the  Council  refusin'  to  run  it,  'count  of 
economy.  And  I  wondered  if  you'd  go  and  hev 
a  look  at  it,  and  tell  us  what  we'd  ought  to  get 
for  it,  and  where." 

"Why,  sure  I  will,"  says  Absalom.  "I'd  be 
glad,"  says  he,  kind  of  pleasant  and  important, 
"to  accommodate." 

He  went  off  down  the  street,  walking  sidewise, 
like  he  does,  his  coat  and  beard  blowing  out  the 


EXIT   CHARITY  29 

same  side,  his  pockets  sagging  till  they  looked 
like  mouths  smiling,  and  his  hat  trained  up  to 
a  peak.  Everybody  liked  Absalom  —  he  had 
such  a  nice,  one-sided  smile  and  he  seemed  to  be 
so  afraid  he  was  going  to  hurt  your  feelings. 
He'd  broke  his  right  arm  in  Silas's  canning 
factory  that  fall,  and  he'd  been  laying  off  ever 
since.  His  wife  done  washings,  and  his  mother 
finished  vests  from  the  city,  and  the  children 
stuffed  up  cracks  in  the  walls  and  thought  it 
was  a  game. 

They  was  others  in  the  town,  come  lately, 
and  mostly  in  the  factory,  that  was  the  same 
way :  the  Bettses  and  the  Doles  and  the  Has- 
kitts  and  the  Hennings.  They  lived  in  little 
shacks  around,  and  the  men  worked  in  the 
canning  factory  and  the  gas-works  and  on  the 
tracks,  and  the  women  helped  out.  And  one 
or  two  of  'em  had  took  down  ill ;  and  so  it  was 
Silas,  that  likes  to  think  of  things  first,  that 
up  and  said  "do  something."  And  it  was  him 
put  the  notice  in  the  papers  a  few  nights  later 
to  all  citizens  —  and  women  —  that's  interested 
in  forming  a  Charity  Society  to  meet  in  Post- 
Ofiice  Hall,  that  he  has  the  renting  of. 

I  was  turning  in  the  stairway  to  the  hall  that  . 
night   when   I   heard   somebody   singing.     And 
coming  down  the  walk,  with  her  hat  on  crooked 


30  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

and  its  feather  broke,  was  old  Bess  Bones.  Bess 
has  lived  in  Friendship  Village  for  years  —  and 
I  always  thought  it  was  real  good  for  the  town 
that  she  done  so.  For  she  is  the  only  woman 
I  ever  knew  of  that  ain't  respectable,  and  ain't 
rich  or  famous  either,  and  yet  that  goes  to 
everybody's  house. 

She  does  cleaning  and  scrubbing,  and  we  all 
like  to  get  her  to  do  it,  she  does  it  so  thoroughly 
conscientious.  She  brings  us  in  little  remedies 
she  knows  about,  and  vegetables  from  her  own 
garden,  and  eggs.  Sometimes  some  of  us  asks 
her  to  set  down  to  a  meal.  Once  she  brought  me 
a  picked  chicken  of  hers.  And  it's  good  for 
Friendship  Village  because  we  all  see  she's 
human,  and  mostly  with  women  like  that  we 
build  a  thick  wall  and  don't  give  'em  a  chance  to 
even  knock  out  a  brick  ever  after. 

"I  was  just  goin'  to  see  you,  Miss  Marsh," 
she  says.  "  I  got  kind  o'  lonesome  and  I  thought 
I'd  bring  you  over  a  begonia  slip  and  set  a 
while." 

"I'm  sorry,  Bess,"  I  says.  "I'm  going  to 
a  meeting." 

"What  kind  of  meetin'  ?"  she  says.  "P'liti- 
cal  ?" 

"Yes  "  I  says,  "something  like  that."  And 
that  was  true,  of  course,  being  politics  is  so 


EXIT  CHARITY  31 

often  carried  on  by  private  charity  from  the 
candidates. 

"I'd  kind  of  like  to  go  to  a  meeting  again," 
she  says,  wistful.  "I  sung  to  revival  meetings 
for  a  month  once,  when  I  was  a  girl." 

"I  guess  you  wouldn't  like  this  one,"  I  says. 
"Come  to  see  me  to-morrow  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it." 

And  then  I  went  up-stairs  and  left  her  stand 
ing  there  on  the  sidewalk,  and  I  felt  kind  of 
ashamed  and  sneaking.  I  didn't  know  why. 
But  I  says  to  myself,  comforting,  that  she'd 
probably  of  broke  out  and  sung  in  the  middle 
of  the  meeting,  if  she  had  come.  Her  head  ain't 
right,  like  the  most  of  ours ;  but  hers  takes  noisy 
forms,  so  you  notice  more. 

Eleven  of  us  turned  out  to  the  meeting,  which 
was  a  pretty  good  proportion,  there  being  only  fif 
teen  hundred  living  in  Friendship  Village  all  to 
gether.  Silas  was  in  the  chair,  formal  as  a  funeral. 

"The  idear,  as  I  understand  it,"  says  Silas, 
when  the  meeting  was  open,  "is  to  get  some 
Charity  going.  We'd  ought  to  organize." 

"And  then  what  ?"  asks  Mis'  Toplady. 

"Why,  commence  distributin'  duds  and 
victuals,"  says  Silas. 

"Well-a,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  "and  keep  on  ' 
distributing  them  all  our  lives  ?" 


32  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Sure,"  says  Silas,  "unless  you're  goin'  to 
be  weary  in  well-doing.  Them  folks'll  keep 
right  on  being  hungry  and  nekked  as  long  as 
they  live." 

"Why  will  they  ?"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  puzzled. 

"Well,  they're  poor  folks,  ain't  they?"  says 
Silas,  scowling. 

"Why,  yes,"  says  Mis'  Toplady;  "but  that 
ain't  all  they  is  to  'em,  is  it  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  says  Silas. 

"Why,  I  mean,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  "can't 
they  be  got  goin'  so's  they  sha'n't  be  poor 
folks?" 

Silas  used  his  face  like  he  smelled  something. 
"Don't  you  know  no  more  about  folks  than 
that?"  says  he.  "Facts  is  facts.  You've  got 
to  take  folks  as  they  are." 

"But  you  ain't  taking  folks  nowheres.  You're 
leavin'  'em  as  they  are,  Silas,"  says  Mis'  Toplady, 
troubled. 

Mis'  Silas  Sykes  spoke  up  with  her  way  of 
measuring  off  just  enough  for  everybody. 

"It's  this  way  Silas  means,"  she  says.  "Folks 
are  rich,  or  medium,  or  poor.  We've  got  to  face 
that.  It's  always  been  so." 

Mis'  Toplady  kind  of  bit  at  her  lower  lip  a 
few  times  in  a  way  she  has,  that  wrinkles  up 
her  nose  meditative.  "It  don't  follow  out," 


EXIT  CHARITY  33 

she  says,  firm.  "My  back  yard  used  to  be  all 
chickweed.  Now  it's  pure  potatoes." 

"Folks,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  real  witherin', 
"folks  ain't  dirt." 

"That's  what  I  thought,"  says  Mis'  Toplady, 
dry. 

Silas  went  right  over  their  heads,  like  he 
does. 

"We've  all  been  doin'  what  we  could  for  these 
folks,"  he  says,  "but  we  ain't  been  doin'  it  real 
wise.  It's  come  to  my  notice  that  the  Haskitts 
had  four  different  chickens  give  to  'em  last 
Christmas.  What  we  want  to  do  is  to  fix  up 
some  sort  of  a  organization  so's  our  chickens 
won't  lap." 

"Well,"  says  Timothy  Toplady,  "then  let's 
organize.  That  ain't  hard.  I  move  it  be  done." 

It  was  done,  and  Silas  was  made  president, 
like  he  ever  loves  to  be,  and  Timothy  treasurer, 
and  me  secretary,  because  they  could  get  me 
to  take  it. 

"Now,"  says  Silas,  "let's  get  down  to  work 
and  talk  over  cases." 

"Cases!"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  distasteful. 
"They  ain't  got  the  smallpox,  have  they  ?  Say 
folks." 

"I  guess  you  ain't  very  used  to  Chanty 
societies,"  says  Silas,  tolerant.  "Take  the  Has- 


34  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

kitts.  They  ain't  got  a  pane  o'  glass  in  their 
house." 

"Nor  no  wood,  much,"  says  Timothy.  "When 
I  went  to  get  the  rent  the  cat  was  asleep  on  the 
cook-stove." 

"What  rent  do  they  give  you,  Timothy?" 
says  Silas. 

"Five  dollars,"  he  says,  pursin'  his  lips. 

"That's  only  three  per  cent,  on  the  money. 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  afford  it." 

"I  am  indulgin'  myself  a t little,"  Timothy  ad 
mits.  "But  I  been  thinkin'  o'  raisin'  it  to  six. 
One  thing,  though  ;  I  ain't  give  'em  any  repairs. 
If  I'd  had  a  six-dollar  family  in  there  I'd  had  to 
fixed  the  window-glass  and  cleaned  out  the  cistern 
and  mended  the  roof.  It  about  evens  itself  up." 

"Yes,"  says  Silas,  agreeful,  "I  guess  it  does. 
Well,  they  can  have  some  boxes  to  burn,  out  of 
the  store.  I'll  take  'em  on  my  list.  You  can't 
go  givin'  'em  truck,  Timothy.  If  you  do,  they'll 
come  down  on  to  you  for  repairs.  Now  the 
Kicker's  .  .  ." 

Abigail  Arnold  spoke  up.  "They're  awful," 
she  says.  "Mis'  Ricker  ain't  fit  to  wash,  and  the 
children  just  show  through.  Ab's  arm  won't 
let  him  work  all  winter." 

"You  take  him,  Silas,"  says  Timothy.  "He's 
your  own  employee." 


EXIT  CHARITY  35 

Silas  shakes  his  head.  "He's  been  chasin' 
me  for  damages  ever  since  he  got  hurt,"  he  says. 

"Ain't  he  goin'  to  get  any,  Silas  ?"  says  Mis' 
Toplady,  pitiful. 

"Get  any?"  says  Silas.  "It  was  his  own 
fault.  He  told  me  a  week  before  about  them 
belts  bein'  wore.  I  told  him  to  lay  off  till  I 
could  fix  'em.  But  no  —  he  kep'  right  on. 
Said  his  wife  was  sick  and  his  bills  was  eatin' 
him  up.  He  ain't  nobody  to  blame  but  his  own 
carelessness.  I  told  him  to  lay  off." 

I  looked  over  to  Mis'  Toplady,  and  she  looked 
over  to  me.  And  I  looked  at  Abigail  and  at 
Mis'  Holcomb,  and  we  all  looked  at  each  other. 
Only  Mis'  Sykes  —  she  set  there  listening  and 
looking  like  her  life  was  just  elegant. 

"Can't  you  take  that  case,  Mis'  Toplady?" 
says  Silas. 

"I'll  go  and  see  them/o/^j,"  she  says,  troubled. 
And  I  guess  us  ladies  felt  troubled,  one  and  all. 
And  so  on  during  all  the  while  we  was  discussing 
the  Doles  and  the  Hennings  and  the  Bettses 
and  the  rest.  And  when  the  meeting  was  over  we 
four  hung  around  the  stove,  and  Mis'  Sykes  too. 

"I  s'pose  it's  all  right,"  Mis'  Toplady  says. 
"I  s'pose  it  is.  But  I  feel  like  we'd  made  a  nice, 
new  apron  to  tie  on  to  Friendship  Village,  and 
hadn't  done  a  thing  about  its  underclothes." 


36  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

"I'm  sure,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  looking  hurt  for 
Silas  that  had  cut  out  the  apron,  "I'm  sure  I 
don't  see  what  you  mean.  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  and  the  greatest  of  these  is  Charity. 
Does  that  mean  what  it  says,  or  don't  it  ?" 

"Oh,  I  s'pose  it  does,"  says  Mis'  Toplady. 
"  But  what  I  think  is  this  :  Ain't  there  things 
that's  greater  than  the  whole  three  as  most  folks 
mean  'em  ?" 

Mis'  Sykes,  she  sort  of  gasped,  in  three  hitches. 
"Will  you  tell  me  what  ?"  she  says,  as  mad  as 
if  she'd  been  faith,  hope,  and  charity  personally. 

"I  dunno  ..."  says  Mis'  Toplady,  dreamy, 
"I  dunno  the  name  of  it.  But  ladies,  it's  some 
thing.  And  I  can  feel  it,  just  as  plain  as  plain." 

It  was  three-four  weeks  before  the  new  Charity 
Association  got  really  to  running,  and  had  col 
lected  in  enough  clothes  and  groceries  so's  we 
could  start  distributing.  On  the  day  before 
the  next  monthly  meeting,  that  was  to  be  in 
Post-Office  Hall  again,  we  started  out  with  the 
things,  so's  to  make  our  report  to  the  meeting. 
Mis'  Toplady  and  I  was  together,  and  the  first 
place  we  went  to  was  Absalom  Ricker's.  Gertie, 
Absalom's  wife,  was  washing,  and  he  was  turn 
ing  the  wringer  with  his  well  hand,  and  his 
mother  was  finishing  vests  by  the  stove,  and 


EXIT  CHARITY  37 

singing  a  tune  that  was  all  on  a  straight  line  and 
quite  loud.  And  the  children,  one  and  all,  was 
crying,  in  their  leisure  from  fighting  each  other. 

"Well,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  "how  you 
getting  on  now  ?  Got  many  washings  to  do  ?" 

Gertie  Ricker,  she  set  down  on  the  wood-box 
all  of  a  sudden  and  begun  to  cry.  She  was  a 
pretty  little  woman,  but  sickly,  and  with  one  of 
them  folding  spines  that  don't  hold  their  folks 
up  very  good. 

"I've  got  three  a  week,"  she  says.  "I  can 
earn  the  rent  all  right." 

"I  tell  her,"  says  Absalom,  "if  she  didn't 
have  no  washings,  then  there'd  be  something 
to  cry  for." 

But  he  said  it  sort  of  lack-luster,  and  like  it 
come  a  word  at  a  time. 

"Do  you  get  out  any?"  says  Mis'  Toplady, 
to  improve  the  topic. 

"Out  where?"  says  Gertie.  "We  ain't  no 
place  to  go.  I  went  down  for  the  yeast  last 
night." 

It  kind  of  come  over  me :  Washing  all  day 
and  her  half  sick ;  Absalom  by  the  stove  tending 
fire  and  turning  wringer ;  his  old  mother  hum 
ming  on  one  note ;  the  children  yelling  when 
they  wasn't  shouting.  I  thought  of  their  cup 
board  and  I  could  see  what  it  must  hold  —  cold 


38  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

boiled  potatoes  and  beans,  I  bet.  I  thought 
of  their  supper-table  ...  of  early  mornings 
before  the  fire  was  built.  And  I  see  the  kind 
of  a  life  they  had. 

And  then  I  looked  over  to  the  two  loaves  of 
bread  and  the  can  of  fruit  and  the  dozen  eggs 
and  the  old  coat  of  Timothy's  that  we'd  brought, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  these  touched  the  spot  of 
what  was  the  trouble  in  that  house  about  as 
much  as  the  smoke  that  oozed  into  the  room 
from  the  chimney.  And  I  glanced  over  to 
Mis'  Toplady  and  there  she  set,  with  ideas  fil- 
terin'  back  of  her  eyes. 

"We've  brought  you  a  few  things,  being 
you're  sick  -  '  she  begun,  sort  of  embarrassed  ; 
but  Absalom,  he  cut  in  short,  shorter  than  I 
ever  knew  him  to  speak. 

" Who's  we?"  he  says. 

"Why-a,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  stumbling 
some  over  her  words,  "the  new  society." 

Absalom  flushed  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
"What  society  ?"  says  he,  sharp. 

Mis'  Toplady  showed  scairt  for  just  a  minute, 
and  then  she  met  his  eyes  brave.  "Why," 
she  says,  "us  —  and  you.  You  belong  to  it. 
We  had  it  in  the  paper,  and  met  to  the  Post- 
Office  Hall  the  other  night.  It's  for  everybody 
to  come  to." 


EXIT  CHARITY  39 

"To  do  what  ?"  says  Absalom. 

"Why-a,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  some  put  to  it, 
"to  —  to  do  nice  things  for  —  for  each  other." 

"The  town  ?"  says  Absalom. 

"The  town,"  agrees  Mis'  Toplady  —  and 
pressed  ahead  almost  like  she  was  finding  some 
thing  to  explain  with.  "We  meet  again  to 
morrow  night,"  says  she.  "Couldn't  you  come 
— you  and  Gertie  ?  Come — and  mebbe  belong  ? " 

Absalom's  mad  cooled  down  some.  First 
he  looked  sheepish  and  then  he  showed  pleased. 
"Why,  I  dunno  —  could  we,  Gertie  ?"  he  says. 

"Is  it  dress-up  ?"  says  Gertie. 

"Mercy,  no,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  "it's  every 
day.  Or  not  so  much  so.  You'll  come,  won't 
you?" 

"Mebbe,"  says  Gertie. 

When  we  got  outside,  I  looked  at  Mis'  Top- 
lady,  kind  of  took  aback;  and  it  was  so  that 
she  looked  at  me. 

"Silas'll  talk  charity  his  way  to  that  meeting, 
you  know,"  I  says.  "I'm  afraid  he'll  hurt 
Absalom  and  Gertie.  I'm  afraid.  .  .  ." 

Mis'  Toplady  looked  kind  of  scairt  herself. 
"I  done  that  before  I  meant  to  do  it  no  more'n 
nothing  in  this  world,"  she  says,  "but  I  dunno 
—  when  I  begun  handin'  'em  out  stuff  I  was 
ashamed  to  do  it  without  putting  it  like  I  done." 


40  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"I  know,"  I  says,  "I  know."  And  know  I 
did.  I've  give  things  to  poor  folks  lots  of  times 
and  glowed  up  my  spine  with  a  virtuous  feeling 
—  but  something  big  was  always  setting  some 
where  inside  me  making  me  feel  ashamed  of 
the  glow  and  ashamed  of  the  giving.  Who  am 
I  that  I  should  be  the  giver,  and  somebody  else 
the  givee  ? 

We  went  to  the  Bettses'  and  caught  Mis' 
Betts  washing  up  two  days'  of  dishes  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  heard  about 
Joe's  losing  his  job,  and  we  talked  to  the  canary. 
"We'd  ought  not  to  afford  him,"  Mis'  Betts 
says,  apologetic.  "I  always  hate  to  take  the 
money  to  get  him  another  package  of  seed  — 
and  we  ain't  much  of  any  crumbs." 

And  we  went  to  the  Haskitts'  and  found  her 
head  tied  up  with  the  toothache.  Folks  looks 
sick  enough  with  their  heads  tied  up  around; 
but  when  it  comes  to  up  and  down,  with  the 
ends  sticking  up,  they  always  look  like  they 
was  going  to  die.  And  we  went  to  the 
Doles'  and  the  Hennings'  and  carried  in  the 
stuff ;  and  one  and  all  them  places,  leaving 
things  there  was  like  laying  a  ten-cent  piece 
down  on  a  leper,  and  bowing  to  him  to  help  on 
his  recovery.  And  every  single  place,  as  soon 
as  ever  we'd  laid  down  the  old  clothes  we'd 


EXIT   CHARITY  41 

brought,  we  invited  'em  to  join  the  organization 
and  to  come  to  the  meeting  next  night. 

" What's  the  name  of  this  here  club?"  Joe 
Betts  asks  us. 

By  that  time  neither  Mis'  Toplady  nor  me 
would  have  tied  the  word  " Charity"  to  that 
club  for  anything  on  earth.  We  told  him  we 
was  going  to  pick  the  name  next  night,  and  told 
him  he  must  come  and  help. 

"Do  come,"  Mis'  Toplady  says,  and  when 
Mis'  Betts  hung  off :  "We're  goin'  to  have  a 
little  visiting  time  —  and  coffee  and  sandwiches 
afterwards,"  Mis'  Toplady  adds,  calm  as  her  hat. 
And  when  we  got  outside  :  "  I  dunno  what  made 
me  stick  on  the  coffee  and  the  sandwiches,"  she 
says,  sort  of  dazed,  "but  it  was  so  kind  of  bleak 
and  dead  in  there,  I  felt  like  I  just  had  to  say 
something  cheerful  and  human  —  like  coffee." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "us  ladies  can  do  the  refresh 
ments  ourselves,  so  be  the  rest  of  the  Board 
stands  on  its  head  at  the  idee  of  doing  'em  itself. 
As  I  presume  likely  it  will  stand." 

And  this  we  both  of  us  presumed  alike.  So 
on  the  way  home  we  stopped  in  to  the  post- 
office  store  and  told  Silas  that  we'd  been  giving 
out  a  good  many  invitations  to  folks  to  come  to 
the  meeting  next  night,  and  mebbe  join. 

"That's  good,"  says  Silas,  genial;  "that's 
good.  We  need  the  dues." 


42  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"We  kind  of  thought  coffee  and  sandwiches 
to-morrow  night,  Silas,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  ex 
perimental,  "and  a  little  social  time." 

"  Don't  you  go  to  makin'  no  white-kid-glove 
doin's  out  o'  this  thing,"  says  Silas.  "You 
can't  mix  up  charity  and  society  too  free. 
Charity's  religion  and  society's  earthy.  And 
that's  two  different  things." 

"Earthy,"  I  says  over.  "Earthy!  So'm  I. 
Ain't  it  a  wonderful  word,  Silas  ?  Well,  us  two  is 
going  to  do  the  coffee  and  sandwiches  for  to 
morrow  night,"  I  added  on,  deliberate,  deter 
mined  and  serene. 

When  Silas  had  done  his  objecting,  and  see 
he  couldn't  help  himself  with  us  willing  to  solicit 
the  whole  refreshments,  and  when  we'd  left 
the  store,  Mis'  Toplady  thought  of  something 
else:  "I  dunno,"  she  says,  "as  we'd  ought  to 
leave  folks  out  just  because  they  ain't  poor. 
That,"  she  says,  troubled,  "don't  seem  real 
right.  Let's  us  telephone  to  them  we  can  think 
of  that  didn't  come  to  the  last  meeting." 

So  we  invited  in  the  telephone  population, 
just  the  same  as  them  that  didn't  have  one. 

The  next  night  us  ladies  got  down  to  the  hall 
early  to  do  the  finishing  touches.  And  on 
Daphne  Street,  on  my  way  down,  I  met  Bess 


EXIT  CHARITY  43 

Bones  again,  kind  of  creeping  along.  She'd 
stopped  to  pat  the  nose  of  a  horse  standing 
patient,  hitched  outside  the  barber-shop  saloon 
—  I've  seen  Bess  go  down  Daphne  Street  on 
market-days  patting  the  nose  of  every  horse 
one  after  another. 

"Hello,  Mis'  Marsh,"  Bess  says.  "Are  you 
comin'  down  with  another  meeting  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  Bess,"  I  says,  "I  am."  And  then 
a  thought  struck  me.  "Bess,"  I  says  —  able 
now  to  hold  up  my  head  like  my  skull  intended, 
because  I  felt  I  could  ask  her  —  "you  come  on 
up,  too  —  you're  invited  to-night.  Everybody 


is." 


Her  face  lit  up,  like  putting  the  curtain  up. 

"Honest,  can  I  ?"  she  says.  "I'd  love  to  go 
to  a  meeting  again  —  I've  looked  i,n  the  window 
at  'em  a  dozen  times.  I'll  get  my  bread  and 
be  right  up." 

I  tell  you,  Post-Office  Hall  looked  nice. 
We'd  got  in  a  few  rugs  and  plants,  and  the  re 
freshment  table  stood  acrost  one  corner,  with 
a  screen  around  the  gas-plate,  and  the  cups  all 
piled  shiny  and  the  sandwiches  covered  with 
white  fringed  napkins.  And  about  seven  o'clock 
in  come  three  pieces  of  the  Friendship  Village 
Stonehenge  Band  we'd  got  to  give  their  serv 
ices,  and  they  begun  tuning  up,  festive.  And  us 


44  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

ladies  stood  around  with  our  hands  under  our 
white  aprons  ;  and  you'd  have  thought  it  was 
some  nice,  human  doings  instead  of  just  duty. 

Before  much  of  anybody  else  had  got  there, 
in  come  them  we'd  invited  first :  Absalom 
Ricker  and  Gertie,  her  looking  real  nice  with 
a  new-ironed  bow  to  her  neck,  and  him  brushed 
up  in  Timothy's  old  coat  and  his  hair  trained  to 
a  high  peak.  And  the  Bettses  —  Joe  with  his 
beard  expected  to  cover  up  where  there  wasn't 
a  necktie  and  her  pretending  the  hall  was  chilly 
so's  to  keep  her  cloak  on  over  whatever  wasn't 
underneath.  And  the  Haskitts,  him  snapping 
and  snarling  at  her,  and  her  trying  to  hush  him 
up  by  agreeing  with  him  promiscuous.  And 
Mis'  Henning  that  her  husband  didn't  show  up. 
We  heard  afterwards  he  was  down  in  the  barber 
shop  saloon,  dressed  up  to  come  but  backed  out 
after.  And  most  everybody  else  come — not  only 
the  original  'leven,  but  some  of  the  telephone 
folks,  and  some  that  the  refreshment-bait  always 
catches. 

Silas  come  in  late  —  he'd  had  to  wait  and 
distribute  the  mail  —  and  when  he  see  the 
Rickers  and  the  rest  of  them,  he  come  tearing 
over  to  us  women  in  the  refreshment  corner. 

"My  dum!"  he  says,  "look  at  them  folks 
setting  down  there  —  Rickerses  and  Henningses 


EXIT  CHARITY  45 

and  Bettses  and  them  —  how  we  goin'  to  manage 
with  them  here  ?  The  idear  of  their  coming  to 
the  meeting  !" 

"Ain't  it  some  their  meeting,  Silas  ?"I  says. 
"The  whole  society  was  formed  on  their  account. 
Seems  to  me  they've  got  a  right  —  just  like  in 
real  United  States  Congress  doings." 

"But,  my  dum,  woman,"  says  Silas,  "how 
we  going  to  take  up  their  cases  and  talk  'em 
over  with  them  setting  there,  taking  it  all  in  ? 
Ain't  you  got  no  delicacy  to  you  ?"  he  ends  up, 
ready  to  burst. 

And  of  course,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
Congress  always  does  do  its  real  business  in 
committees,  private  and  delicate. 

Mis'  Toplady  was  ready  for  Silas. 

"You're  right  about  it,"  she  says.  "We 
can't  do  that,  can  we  ?  Suppose  we  don't  do 
so  very  much  business  to-night  ?  Let's  set 
some  other  talk  goin'.  We  thought  mebbe  — 
do  you  s'pose  your  niece  would  sing  for  us, 
Silas?" 

"Mebbe,"  says  Silas,  some  mollified,  through 
being  proud  to  sinning  of  his  visiting  niece ; 
"but  I  don't  like  this  here — "  he  was  going  on. 

"Ask  her,"  says  Mis'  Toplady.  "She'll  do 
it  for  you,  Silas." 

And  Silas  done  so,  ignorant  as  the  dead  that 


46  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

he'd  been  right  down  managed.  Then  he  went 
up  stage  and  rapped  to  begin. 

Well,  of  course  I  had  to  read  the  minutes, 
being  secretary  so,  and  I  was  ready,  having  set 
up  half  the  night  before  to  make  them  out.  And 
of  course,  the  job  was  some  delicate ;  but  I'd 
fixed  them  up  what  I  thought  was  real  nice  and 
impersonal.  Like  this  : 

"A  meeting  of  citizens  of  Friendship  Village  was  held, 

,  in  Post-Office  Hall,  for  the  purpose  of  organizing  a 

society  to  do  nice  things  for  folks.  (Then  I  give  the  names 
of  the  officers.)  Several  plans  was  thought  over  for  mak 
ing  presents  to  others  and  for  distributing  the  same. 
Several  families  was  thought  of  for  membership.  It 
was  voted  to  have  two  kinds  of  members,  honorary  and 
active.  The  active  pay  all  the  dues  and  provide  the 
presents,  but  everybody  contributes  what  they  can  and 
will,  whether  work  or  similar.  A  number  of  ways  was 
thought  of  for  going  to  work.  Things  that  had  ought 
to  be  done  was  talked  over.  It  was  decided  to  hold 
monthly  meetings.  Meeting  adjourned." 

That  seemed  to  me  to  cover  everything  real 
neat,  nobody  ever  paying  much  attention  to  the 
minutes  anyway.  I  suppose  that's  why  they 
give  'em  such  a  small,  stingy  name.  And  when 
Silas  got  to  reports  of  committees,  Mis'  Toplady 
was  no  less  ready  for  him.  She  hopped  right  up 
to  say  that  the  work  that  had  been  put  in  her 
hands  was  all  finished,  the  same  as  was  ordered, 


EXIT  CHARITY  47 

and  no  more  to  be  said  about  it.  And  when  it 
come  to  Unfinished  Business,  there  was  me  on 
my  feet  again  to  say  that  the  work  that  had 
been  put  in  my  hands  wasn't  finished  and 
there'd  be  more  to  be  said  about  it  later. 

Then  Silas  asked  for  New  Business,  and  there 
was  a  pause.  And  all  of  a  sudden  Absalom 
Ricker  got  on  to  his  feet  with  his  arm  still  in 
its  sling. 

'"Mr.  President,"  he  says,  so  nice  and  dignified. 
And  when  Silas  had  done  his  nod,  Absalom  went 
on  in  his  soft,  unstarched  voice :  "  It's  a  real 
nice  idear,"  he  says,  "to  get  up  this  here  club. 
I  for  one  feel  real  glad  it's  going.  You  ain't 
got  up  any  line  around  it.  Nobody  has  to  be 
any  one  thing  in  order  to  get  in  on  it.  I've 
thought  for  a  long  time  there'd  ought  to  be  some 
place  where  folks  could  go  that  didn't  believe 
alike,  nor  vote  alike,  nor  get  paid  alike.  I'm 
glad  I  come  out  —  I  guess  we  all  are.  Now  the 
purpose  of  this  here  club,  as  I  understand  it, 
is  to  do  nice  things  for  folks.  Well,  I've  got 
a  nice  thing  to  propose  for  us  to  do.  I'll  pitch  in 
and  help,  and  I  guess  some  of  the  rest  of  us  will. 
Soon  as  it  comes  warm  weather,  we  could  get 
a-hold  of  that  elegant  galvanized  iron  swill- 
wagon  that  ain't  in  use  and  drive  it  around  the 
town  to  do  what  it's  for.  Us  that  don't  have 


48  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

work  so  awful  steady  could  do  it,  nice  as  a  mice. 
I  dunno  whether  that  comes  inside  what  the  club 
was  intended  for,  but  it  would  be  doing  a  kind 
of  a  nice  thing  for  folks,  my  way  of  thinking." 

Up  hopped  Eppleby  Holcomb  —  Eppleby 
being  one  of  those  prophet  men  that  can  see 
faint  signs  sticking  up  their  heads  where  there 
ain't  much  of  anything  showing. 

"That's  the  ticket,  Mr.  President,"  says  he. 
"Us  that  don't  have  horses  or  chickens  can 
sense  that  all  right.  If  Absalom  moves  it,  I 
second  it." 

"Will  you  help  drive  it  around,  Betts  ?"  says 
Absalom.  "Hank  Haskitt  ?  Ben  Dole  ?  We're 
all  of  us  home  a  good  deal  of  the  time  —  we 
could  keep  it  goin',  amongst  us.  All  right," 
says  he,  when  the  men  had  nodded  matter-of- 
course  nods,  "sure  I  make  it  a  motion." 

Silas  put  the  motion,  looking  some  dazed. 
And  when  it  carried,  hearty,  us  ladies  sitting 
over  by  the  refreshment  table,  and  that  had 
bought  the  wagon,  we  all  burst  out  and  spatted 
our  hands.  We  couldn't  help  it.  And  every 
body  kind  of  turned  around  and  passed  some 
remark  —  and  it  made  a  real  nice  minute. 

Then  Silas  spoke  up  from  the  chair  kind  of 
sour  —  being  in  the  Council  so,  that  wouldn't 
run  the  wagon. 


EXIT   CHARITY  49 

"The  thing's  in  the  city  tool-house  now," 
says  he,  "and  it's  a  good  deal  in  the  way  where 
it  is.  It  had  ought  to  be  put  somewheres." 

Up  pipes  Ben  Dole,  kind  of  important  and 
eager,  and  forgot  to  address  the  chair  till  he  was 
half  through,  and  then  done  so  and  ducked  and 
flushed  and  went  on  anyhow.  And  the  purport 
of  his  remarks  was,  that  he  could  set  that  tank 
in  the  barn  of  his  lot,  that  he  didn't  have  no 
horse  for  and  no  use  of,  and  keep  it  there  till 
spring.  And  I  seconded  what  he  meant,  and  it 
got  itself  carried,  and  Ben  set  down  like  he'd 
done  a  thing,  same  as  he  had  done. 

Then,  when  Silas  said  what  was  the  next 
pleasure  of  the  meeting,  Mis'  Toplady  mentioned 
that  they  needed  carpet  rags  to  make  up  some 
rugs  for  two-three  places,  and  who  could  give 
some  and  help  sew  them  ?  Mis'  Sykes  said  she 
could,  and  Mame  and  Abigail  and  me  and 
some  more  offered  up,  and  Mis'  Toplady  wrote 
our  names  down,  and,  "How  about  you,  Gertie  ?" 
says  she  to  Gertie  Ricker. 

Gertie  looked  scairt  for  a  minute,  and  then 
my  heart  jumped  pleasant  in  its  socket,  for  I  see 
Absalom  nudge  her.  Yes,  sir,  he  nudged  her  to 
say  she  would,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  knew  that 
he  wanted  his  wife  to  be  taking  some  part  like 
the  rest  was  ;  and  she  says,  faint,  "I  guess  so." 


50  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

And  when  Mis'  Sykes  asked  round,  Mis'  Haskitt 
and  Mis'  Henning  said  they  didn't  have  much 
of  any  rags,  but  they  could  come  and  help  sew 
the  rags  of  them  that  did  have. 

"So  do,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  hearty,  "and 
we'll  meet  to  my  house  next  Tuesday  at  two 
o'clock,  sha'n't  we  ?  And  have  a  cup  o'  tea." 

"What  else  is  the  pleasure  of  the  meeting  ?" 
says  Silas,  balancing  on  his  toes  as  chairman-like 
as  he  knew  how. 

Then  on  the  second  row  from  the  back,  who 
should  we  see  getting  up  but  Bess  Bones.  I 
hadn't  seen  her  come  in  and  I'd  forgot  all  about 
her.  Her  hat  was  on  one  side,  and  the  plume 
that  was  broke  in  the  middle  was  hanging  idle, 
not  doing  any  decorating ;  and  I  could  see  the 
other  ladies  thinking  with  one  brain  that  ten 
to  one  she'd  been  drinking,  and  would  break 
out  singing  in  our  very  midst.  But  she  hadn't 
nor  she  didn't.  Only  what  she  said  went  over 
the  room  shrill,  as  her  singing  voice  was. 

"For  the  land's  sakes,"  says  Bess,  "if  you're 
goin'  to  hold  protracted  meetin's  in  this  hall, 
why  don't  you  clean  up  the  floor  ?  I  never  see 
such  a  hole.  I  motion  I  come  in  an'  scrub  it  up. 
I  ain't  no  thousand  dollars  to  subscribe,  but 
a  cake  o'  soap'll  keep  you  from  stickin'  to  the 
boards." 


EXIT  CHARITY  51 

"Second  the  motion  !"  says  I,  all  over  me. 

And  even  Silas  broke  down  and  smiled  like 
he  don't  think  no  president  had  ought  to  do. 
And  everybody  else  kind  of  laughed  and  looked 
at  each  other  and  felt  the  kind  of  a  feeling  that 
don't  run  around  among  folks  any  too  often. 
And  when  Silas  put  the  motion,  kind  of  grudging, 
we  all  voted  for  it  abundant.  And  Bess  set 
there  showing  pleased,  like  an  empty  room  that 
has  had  a  piece  of  furniture  got  for  it. 

I  dunno  what  it  was  that  minute  done  to  us  all. 
I've  often  wondered  since,  what  it  was.  But 
somehow  everybody  kind  of  felt  that  they  all 
knew  something  each  other  knew,  only  they 
couldn't  rightly  name  it.  Ab  and  Joe  Betts, 
Mame  Holcomb  and  Eppleby,  Gertie  and  Mis' 
Toplady  and  me  —  we  all  felt  it.  Everybody 
did,  unless  it  was  Silas  and  Mis'  Sykes.  Silas 
didn't  sense  nothing  much  but  that  he  hoped  the 
meeting  was  going  to  run  smooth,  and  Mis' 
Sykes  —  well,  right  in  the  middle  of  that  glow 
ing  minute  I  see  her  catch  sight  of  Mame  Hoi- 
comb's  new  red  waist  and  she  set  there  thinking 
of  nothing  but  waist  either  with  eyes  or  with  mind. 

But  the  rest  of  us  was  sharing  a  big  minute. 
And  I  liked  us  all  to  be  feeling  that  way  — 
I  ain't  never  liked  anything  better,  without  it's 
the  Christmas  feeling  or  the  Thanksgiving 


52  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

feeling.  And  this  feeling  was  sort  of  like  all 
two.  And  I  betted  if  only  we  could  make 
it  last  —  Absalom  wouldn't  be  getting  done  out 
of  his  arm's  money-value  by  Silas,  nor  the  Bettses 
out  of  their  decent  roof  by  Timothy,  nor  they 
wouldn't  be  no  club  formed  to  dole  out  charity 
stuff,  but  we  would  all  know  a  better  way.  And 
things  would  be  different.  Different. 

I  leaned  clear  past  three  chairs  and  nudged 
Mis'  Toplady.  She  looked  round,  and  I  see 
she  was  just  wiping  her  eyes  on  her  apron- 
string  —  Mis'  Toplady  never  can  find  her  hand 
kerchief  when  she  most  wants  to  cry.  And  I 
never  said  a  word  —  I  didn't  need  to  —  but  we 
nodded  and  we  both  knew  what  we  both  knew : 
that  there  was  a  bigger  thing  in  the  room  that 
minute  than  ever  Silas  knew  or  guessed  when 
he  planned  out  his  plan.  And  it  was  what  Mis' 
Toplady  had  meant  when  she  told  him  there  was 
something  "greater  than  these"  —  as  most 
folks  mean  'em. 

I  didn't  lose  the  feeling  through  the  piece 
by  the  band  that  come  next,  nor  through  the 
selection  by  Silas's  niece.  The  music  really 
made  the  feeling  more  so  —  the  music,  and  our 
all  setting  there  hearing  it  together,  and  every 
body  in  the  room  being  givers,  and  nobody 
givees.  But  when  the  music  stopped,  and  while 


EXIT  CHARITY  53 

I  was  still  feeling  all  glorified  up,  what  did  Mis' 
Sykes  do  but  break  in,  something  like  throwing 
a  stone  through  a  window. 

"  I  should  think  we  might  as  well  get  the  club 
name  settled  to-night,"  she  says  with  her  little 
formal  pucker.  "Ain't  the  Charity  Club  that 
we  spoke  of  real  nice  and  dignified  for  our  title  ?" 

It  was  Mis'  Toplady  that  exploded.  It  just 
bare  happened  it  wasn't  me,  but  it  turned  out 
to  be  her. 

"Land,  land,"  she  says,  "no!  Not  one  per 
son  in  fifteen  hundred  knows  what  charity  means 
anyhow,  and  everybody'd  get  the  wrong  idee. 
Let's  call  it  just  its  plain  natural  name :  The 
Friendship  Village  Club.  Or,  The  Whole  World 
Club.  Or  I  dunno  but  The  Universe  Club  !" 

I  knew  I  wouldn't  have  the  sense  to  keep  still 
right  through  things.  I  never  do  have. 

"No,  sir  !"  I  says  out,  "oh,  no  sir  !  Universe 
Club  ain't  big  enough.  For  if  they  is  any  other 
universe  anywhere  maybe  that  might  feel  left 


out.' 


Long  before  we  had  settled  on  any  one  name, 
I  remember  Mis'  Toplady  come  out  from  behind 
the  refreshments  screen  and  says:  "Mr.  Presi 
dent,  the  coffee  and  sandwiches  has  come  to  a 
boil.  Can't  you  peter  off  the  meeting  and 
adjourn  it  for  one  week  ?" 


54  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Which  wasn't  just  exactly  how  she  meant  to 
say  it.  But  it  seemed  to  come  in  so  pat  that 
everybody  rustled,  spontaneous,  in  spite  of 
themselves.  And  us  ladies  begun  passing  the 
plates. 

After  they'd  all  gone,  we  was  picking  up 
the  dishes  when  Silas  come  in  to  see  to  the 
stoves. 

"Oh,  Silas,"  I  says,  "wasn't  it  a  splendid 
meeting  ?  Wasn't  it  ?" 

Silas  was  pinching,  gingerish,  at  the  hot  stove- 
door  handle,  rather  than  take  his  coat-tail  for 
a  holder. 

"I  s'pose  you're  satisfied,"  he  says.  "You 
fed  'em,  even  if  we  didn't  get  much  done." 

"Not  get  much  done!"  I  says  —  "not  get 
much  done  !  Oh,  Silas,  what  more  did  you  want 
to  do  than  we  see  done  here  to-night  ?" 

"Well,  what  kind  of  a  charity  meeting  was 
that  ?"  says  he,  sour  and  bitter  rolled  into  one. 

I  went  up  to  him  with  all  of  Mis'  Toplady's 
fringed  tea-napkins  in  my  hands  that  it  was 
going  to  take  her  most  of  the  next  day  to  do  up. 

"Why,  Silas,"  I  says,  "I  dunno  if  it  was  any 
kind  of  a  charity  meeting.  But  it  was  a  town 
meeting.  It  was  a  folks'  meeting.  It  was  a 
human  meeting.  Can't  you  sense  it  ?  Can't 


EXIT   CHARITY  55 

you  sense  it,  Silas  ?"  I  put  it  to  him  :  "We  got 
something  else  besides  charity  going  here  to 
night —  as  sure  as  the  living  sun." 

"I  like  to  know  what  ?"  he  snaps  back,  and 
slammed  the  stove  door. 

Mis'  Toplady,  she  looked  at  him  tranquil  over 
the  tops  of  her  two  pairs  of  spectacles. 

"Something  that's  in  folks,"  says  she  —  and 
went  on  hunting  up  her  spoons. 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME 

WHEN  the  minister's  wife  sent  for  me  that 
day,  it  was  a  real  bad  time,  because  I'd  been 
doing  up  my  tomato  preserves  and  I'd  stood  on 
my  feet  till  they  was  ready  to  come  off .  But 
as  soon  as  I  got  the  last  crock  filled,  I  changed 
my  dress  and  pushed  my  hair  up  under  my  hat 
and  thought  I'd  remember  to  keep  my  old  shoes 
underneath  my  skirt. 

The  minister's  parlor  is  real  cool  and  shady  — 
she  keeps  it  shut  up  all  day,  and  it  kind  of  smells 
of  its  rose  jar  and  its  silk  cushions  and  the  dried 
grasses  in  the  grate ;  and  I  sank  down  in  the 
horse-hair  patent  rocker,  and  was  glad  of  the  rest. 
But  I  kept  wondering  what  on  earth  the  min 
ister's  wife  could  want  of  me.  It  wasn't  the 
season  for  missionary  barrels  or  lumberman's 
literature  —  the  season  for  them  is  house-clean 
ing  time  when  we  don't  know  what  all  to  do 
with  the  truck,  and  we  take  that  way  of  getting 
rid  of  it  and,  same  time,  providing  a  nice  little 
self-indulgence  for  our  consciences.  But  this 
was  the  dead  of  Summer,  and  everybody  sunk 
deep  in  preserves  and  vacations  and  getting  their 

56 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  57 

social  indebtedness  paid  off  and  there  wasn't 
anything  going  around  to  be  dutiful  about  for, 
say,  a  month  or  six  weeks  yet,  when  the  Fall 
woke  up,  and  the  town  begun  to  get  out  the 
children's  school-clothes  and  hunt  'em  for  moths. 

"Well,  Calliope,"  says  the  minister's  wife, 
"I  s'pose  you  wonder  what  I've  got  important 
to  say  to  you." 

"True,"  says  I,  "I  do.  But  my  feet  ache  so," 
I  says  graceful,  "I'm  perfectly  contented  to 
set  and  listen  to  it,  no  matter  what  it  is." 

She  scraped  her  chair  a  little  nearer  —  she  was 
a  dear,  fat  woman,  that  her  breathing  showed 
through  her  abundance.  She  had  on  a  clean, 
starched  wrapper,  too  short  for  anything  but 
home  wear,  and  long-sleeved  cotton  under-wear 
that  was  always  coming  down  over  her  hands,  in 
July  or  August,  and  making  you  feel  what  a  grand 
thing  it  is  to  be  shed  of  them  —  I  don't  know 
of  anything  whatever  that  makes  anybody 
seem  older  than  to  see  long,  cotton  undersleeves 
on  them  and  the  thermometer  90°  at  the  City 
Bank  corner. 

'"Well,"  says  she,  "Calliope,  the  Reverend 
and  I  — "  she  always  called  her  husband  the 
Reverend — "has  been  visiting  in  the  City,  as 
you  know.  And  while  there  we  had  the  priv 
ilege  of  attending  the  Church  of  the  Divine  Life." 


58  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Yes,"  says  I,  wondering  what  was  coming. 

"Never,"  says  she,  impressive,  "never  have 
I  seen  religion  at  so  high  an  ebb.  It  was  magnif 
icent.  From  gallery  to  the  back  seat  the  pews 
were  filled  with  attentive,  intelligent  people. 
Outside,  the  two  sides  of  the  street  were  lined 
with  their  automobiles.  And  this  not  one 
Sunday,  but  every  Sunday.  It  was  the  most 
positive  proof  of  the  interest  of  the  human  heart 
in  —  in  divine  things.  It  was  grand/* 

"Well,  well,"  says  I,  following  her. 

'"Now,"  she  says,  "the  sermon  wasn't  much. 
Good,  but  not  much.  And  the  singing  —  well, 
Lavvy  Whitmore  can  do  just  as  good  when  she 
sets  about  it.  Then  what  made  folks  go  ?  The 
Reverend  and  I  talked  it  over.  And  we've 
decided  it  isn't  because  they're  any  better  than 
the  village  folks.  No,  they've  simply  got  in  the 
habit  of  it,  they  see  everybody  else  going,  and 
they  go.  And  it  give  us  an  idea." 

"What  was  that  ?"  says  I,  encouraging,  for  I 
never  see  where  she  was  driving  on  at. 

"The  same  situation  can  be  brought  about 
in  Friendship  Village,"  says  she.  "If  only 
everybody  sees  everybody  going  to  church, 
everybody  else  will  go  !" 

I  sat  trying  to  figger  that  out.  "Do  you 
think  so  ?"  says  I,  meantime. 


THE  TIME  HAS  COME  59 

"I  am  sure  so,"  she  replies,  firm.  "The 
question  is,  How  shall  we  get  everybody  to  go, 
till  the  example  becomes  fixed  ?" 

"How,  indeed  ?"  says  I,  helpless,  wondering 
which  of  the  three  everybodys  she  was  thinking 
of  starting  in  on. 

"Now,"  she  continues,  "we  have  talked  it  over, 
the  Reverend  and  I,  and  we  have  decided  that 
you're  the  one  to  help  us.  We  want  you  to  help 
us  think  up  ways  to  get  this  whole  village  into 
church  for,  say,  four  Sundays  or  so,  hand- 
running." 

I  was  trying  to  see  which  end  to  take  hold 
of. 

"Well-a,"  I  says,  "into  which  church  ?" 

The  minister's  wife  stared  at  me. 

"Why,  ours  !"  says  she. 

"Why  into  ours  ?"  I  ask'  her,  thoughtful. 

"My  goodness,"  says  she,  "what  do  you 
s'pose  we're  in  our  church  for,  anyway  ?" 

"I'm  sure,"  says  I,  "I  don't  know.  I  often 
wonder.  I'm  in  our  particular  one  because  my 
father  was  janitor  of  it  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
Why  are  you  in  it  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  perfectly  withering. 

"I,"  she  says  cold,  "was  brought  up  in  it. 
There  was  never  any  question  what  one  I  should 
be  in." 


60  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Exactly,"  says  I,  nodding.  "And  your 
husband  —  why  is  he  in  our  special  church  ?" 

"My  dear  Calliope,"  says  she,  regal,  "he  was 
born  in  it.  His  father  was  minister  of  it " 

"Exactly,"  I  says  again.  "Then  there's 
Mame  Holcomb,  her  mother  sung  in  our  choir, 
so  she  joined  ours.  And  Mis'  Toplady,  they 
lived  within  half  a  mile  of  ours  out  in  the  country, 
and  the  other  churches  were  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hill.  So  they  joined  ours.  And  the  Sykeses, 
they  joined  ours  when  they  lived  in  Kingsford, 
because  there  wasn't  any  other  denomination 
there.  But  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  I  don't 
happen  to  know  what  their  reasons  was.  I  sup 
pose  they  was  equally  spiritual." 

The  minister's  wife  bent  over  toward  me. 

"Calliope  Marsh,"  says  she,  "you  talk  like 
an  atheist." 

"Never  mind  me,"  I  says.  "Go  on  about  the 
plan.  Everybody  is  to  be  got  into  our  church 
for  a  few  Sundays,  as  I  understand  it.  What  you 
going  to  give  them  when  you  get  them  there  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  kind  of  horror-struck. 

"Calliope,"  says  she,  "what  has  come  over 
you  ?  The  Reverend  is  going  to  preach,  of 


course.'3 


"About  what?"   says   I,   grim.     "Describin' 
the  temple,  and  telling  how  many  courts  it  had  ? 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  61 

Or  giving  us  a  little  something  exegitical  — 
whatever  that  means  ?" 

For  a  minute  I  thought  she  was  going  to  cry, 
and  I  melted  myself.  If  I  hadn't  been  pre 
serving  all  the  morning,  I  wouldn't  never  have 
spoke  so  frank. 

"Honest,"  I  says,  "I  don't  know  what  ex 
egitical  does  mean,  but  I  didn't  intend  it  in 
sulting.  But  tell  me  this  —  just  as  truthful 
as  if  you  wasn't  a  minister's  wife  :  Do  you  see 
any  living,  human  thing  in  our  church  service 
here  in  the  village  that  would  make  a  living, 
human  young  folk  really  want  to  go  to  it  ?" 

"They'd  ought  to  want  to  go  to  it,"  says  she. 

"Never  mind  what  they'd  ought  to  want," 
says  I,  "though  I  ain't  so  clear  they'd  ought  to 
want  it,  myself.  Just  as  truthful  as  if  you  wasn't 
a  minister's  wife  —  do  you  ? " 

"No,"  says  she,  "but " 

"Now,"  I  says,  "you've  said  it.  And  what 
is  true  for  young  is  often  true  for  old.  If  you 
want  to  meet  that,  I'm  ready  to  help  you.  But 
if  you  just  want  to  fill  our  church  up  full  of  folks, 
I  don't  care  whether  it's  full  or  not  —  not  that 
way." 

"Well,"  she  says,  "I'm  sure  I  only  meant 
what  was  for  the  best  in  my  husband's  work " 

I  put  out  my  hand  to  her.     All  of  a  sudden,  I 


62  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

saw  her  as  she  was,  doing  her  level  best  inside 
the  four  walls  of  her  —  and  I  says  to  myself 
that  I'd  been  a  brute  and,  though  I  was  glad 
of  it,  I'd  make  up  for  it  by  getting  after  the  thing 
laying  there  underneath  all  the  words. 

For  Friendship  Village,  in  this  particular, 
wasn't  any  different  from  any  other  village  or 
any  other  town  or  city  of  now.  We  had  fifteen 
hundred  folks  and  we  had  three  churches,  three 
ministers  at  Eight  Hundred  Dollars  apiece 
annually,  three  cottage  organs,  three  choirs, 
three  Sunday  School  picnics  in  Summer,  three 
Sunday  School  entertainments  in  Winter,  three 
sets  of  repairs,  carpets,  conventions  and  del 
egates,  and  six  stoves  with  the  wood  to  buy  to 
run  'em.  And  out  of  the  fifteen  hundred  folks, 
from  forty  to  sixty  went  to  each  church  each 
Sunday.  We  were  like  that. 

In  one  respect,  though,  we  differed  from  every 
other  town.  We  had  Lavvy  Whitmore.  Lavvy 
was  the  town  soprano.  She  sung  like  a  bird 
incarnate,  and  we  all  got  her  for  Sunday  School 
concerts  and  visiting  ministers  and  special 
occasions  in  general.  Lavvy  didn't  belong  to 
any  church.  She  sort  of  boarded  round,  and 
we  couldn't  pin  her  down  to  any  one  choir. 

"For  one  reason,"  she  said,  "I  haven't  got 
enough  clothes  to  belong  to  any  one  choir. 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  63 

IVe  been  driven  distracted  too  many  times 
looking  at  the  same  plaid  waist  and  the  same 
red  bird  and  the  same  cameo  pin  in  choirs  to  do 
it  for  anybody  else.  By  kind  of  boarding  round 
the  way  I  do,  I  can  give  them  all  a  change." 

The  young  minister  over  to  the  White  Frame 
church  —  young  Elbert  Kinsman  —  he  took  it 
harder  than  the  rest. 

"How  are  your  convictions,  Miss  Lavvy?" 
he  had  once  been  heard  to  say. 

"My  convictions?"  she  answered  him. 
"They  are  that  there  isn't  enough  difference  in 
the  three  to  be  so  solemn  and  so  expensive  over. 
Especially  the  expensive,"  she  added.  "Is 
there  now  ?" 

"No,"  young  Elbert  Kinsman  had  unex 
pectedly  replied,  "I  myself  don't  think  there  is. 
But " 

"The  only  thing  is,"  Lawy  had  put  in  irrev 
erent,  "you  can't  get  rid  of  that  'but,'  and  I 
have!" 

"You  send  for  Lavvy,"  I  says  now  to  our 
minister's  wife.  "She'll  think  of  something." 

So  there  we  were,  with  a  kind  of  revival  on  our 
hands  to  plan  before  we  knew  it,  because  our 
minister's  wife  was  like  that,  much  more  like 
that  than  he  was.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  empha 
sis,  but  she  had  a  great  deal  of  force. 


64  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Going  home  that  morning,  I  went  a  little  out 
of  my  way  and  come  round  by  Shepherd's 
Grove.  Shepherd's  Grove  lays  just  on  the  edge 
of  the  village,  not  far  from  the  little  grassy 
triangle  in  the  residence  part  —  and  it  always 
rests  me  to  go  there.  Walking  through  it  that 
morning  I  remember  I  thought : 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  this  kind  of  extry  effort  must 
be  all  right  —  even  Nature  enters  into  it  real 
extensive.  Every  Summer  is  an  extry  effort  — - 
a  real  revival,  I  guess.  But  oh,"  I  says  to  my 
self,  wishful,  "that's. so  spontaneous  and  unani 
mous  !  I  wish't  folks  was  more  like  that.  .  .  ." 

I  was  filling  in  for  organist  while  ours  was 
away  on  a  vacation  to  her  husband's  relatives. 
That  sounds  so  grand  and  I'd  ought  to  explain 
that  I  can  only  play  pieces  that  are  written  in  the 
natural.  But  by  picking  out  judicious,  I  can 
get  along  through  the  morning  and  evening 
services  very  nice.  I  don't  dare  ever  attempt 
prayer-meeting,  because  then  somebody  is  likely 
to  pipe  up  and  give  out  a  hymn  that's  in 
sharps  or  flats,  without  thinking.  I  remember 
one  night,  though,  when  I  just  had  to  play  for 
prayer-meeting  being  the  only  one  present  that 
knew  white  notes  from  black.  There  was  a 
visiting  minister.  And  when  he  give  out  his 
first  hymn,,  I  see  it  was  "There  is  a  Calm  for 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  65 

Those  That  Weep"  in  three  flats,  and  I  turned 
around  on  the  stool,  and  I  says,  "Wouldn't  you 
just  as  lief  play  the  piece  on  the  opposite  page  ? 
That's  wrote  natural."  He  done  so,  looking 
some  puzzled,  and  well  he  might,  for  the  one  I 
mentioned  happened  to  be,  "Master,  the  Tem 
pest  is  Raging."  I  was  a  kind  of  a  limited  organ 
ist  but  then  I  filled  in,  vacations  and  such,  any 
how.  And  it  was  so  I  was  doing  that  Summer. 

And  so  they  left  it  to  me  to  kind  of  plan  the 
order  of  services  for  them  four  Sundays  in  Sep 
tember  that  they  decided  on.  That  was  nice  to 
do  —  I'd  been  hankering  to  get  my  hands  on  the 
services  many  a  time.  And  a  night  or  two  after 
wards,  our  minister  come  down  to  talk  this  over 
with  me.  I'd  been  ironing  all  that  blessed  day, 
and  just  before  supper  my  half  bushel  of  cherries 
had  come  down  on  me,  unexpected.  I  was  sit 
ting  on  the  front  porch  in  the  cool  of  the  day, 
pitting  them.  The  sun  wasn't  down  yet,  and 
folks  was  watering  lawns  and  tinkering  with 
blinds  and  screens  and  fences,  or  walking  round 
pinching  off  dead  leaves ;  and  being  out  there 
sort  of  rested  me. 

Our  minister  sat  down  on  the  top  stoop-step. 
It  had  been  an  awful  hot  day,  and  he  looked 
completely  tuckered  out. 

"Hot,  ain't  it?"  says  I,  sympathetic,  —  you 


66  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

can  sympathize  with  folks  for  the  weather  with 
out  seeming  to  reproach  'em,  same  as  sympathy 
for  being  tired  out  does  to  'em. 

"Very  warm,"  says  he.  "I've  made,"  he 
says,  "eleven  calls  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  did  you?"  I  says.  "What  was  the 
occasion  of  them  ?" 

He  looked  surprised.  "Pastoral  calls,"  he 
says,  explaining. 

"Oh,"  I  says.     "Sick  folks?" 

"Why  no,  no,"  says  he.  "My  regular  rounds. 
I've  made,"  he  adds,  'one  hundred  and  fourteen 
calls  this  month." 

I  went  on  pitting  cherries.  When  I  look 
back  on  it  now,  I  know  that  it  wasn't  natural 
courage  at  all  that  made  me  say  what  I  did.  It 
was  merely  the  cherries  coming  on  top  of  the 
ironing. 

"Ain't  life  odd  ?"  says  I.  "When  you  go  to 
see  folks,  it's  duty.  And  when  I  go  to  see  folks, 
I  do  it  for  a  nice,  innocent  indulgence." 

He  looked  kind  of  bewildered  and  sat  there 
fanning  himself  with  the  last  foreign  missionary 
report  and  not  saying  anything  for  a  minute. 

"What  did  you  find  to  talk  about  with  'em  ?" 
I  says,  casual. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  hardly  know.  The  range 
of  interests,  I  must  say,  is  not  very  wide.  There 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  67 

has  been  a  good  deal  of  sickness  in  the  congre 
gation  this  Summer " 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "I  know.  Mis'  Emmons's 
limb  has  been  troubling  her  again.  Mis' 
Temples'  headaches  have  come  back.  Old  Mr. 
Blackwell  has  got  hold  of  a  new  dyspepsia 
remedy.  At  the  Holmans'  the  two  twins  fell 
into  an  empty  cistern  and  got  scraped.  And 
Grandma  Oxner  don't  see  any  change  in  the  old 
complaint.  I'm  familiar  with  'em." 

He  smiled  at  that.  "They  have  a  good  many 
burdens  to  bear,"  he  says,  patient.  "  But " 

"But,"  I  says,  "don't  it  seem  wicked  to  ask  a 
man  to  set  and  listen  to  everybody's  troubles 
for  one  hundred  and  fourteen  calls  a  month, 
and  expect  him  to  feel  he's  doing  the  Lord's 
work?" 

"The  office  of  comforter "  he  began. 

"When,"  says  I,  "was  complaints  ever  les 
sened  by  dwelling  on  'em  —  tell  me  that  ? 
Oh,"  I  says,  "it  ain't  you  I'm  blaming,  nor  the 
other  ministers  either.  I'm  blaming  us,  that 
calls  a  minister  to  come  and  help  us  reveal  the 
word  of  God  to  ourselves,  and  then  expect  a 
social  call  a  month,  or  more,  ofFn  him,  once 
around  the  congregation  —  or  else  be  uppish 
and  mebbe  leave  the  church." 

"The  office  of  spiritual  adviser  always  demands 


68  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"    he    started    in,    and    concluded    it    as 


might  have  been  expected. 

"How  much  religion  really,  really,  do  they  let 
you  talk  on  these  calls  ?"  I  ask'  him.  "  Don't 
it  seem  kind  of  bad  taste  if  you  say  much  about 
it  ?  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  don't  ministers 
pride  themselves  nowdays  on  being  all-around 
men  who  can  talk  about  everything,  from  con 
certs  to  motion  pictures,  and  this  here  city  gollif  ? 
Of  course  they  do.  That  is,  if  folks  keep  off 
their  complaints  long  enough  to  leave  you  prove 
how  really  broad  your  interests  are." 

"Yes,  I  know — well,"  he  says  patient,  "they  ex 
pect  the  calls.  What,"  he  adds,  "  had  you  thought 
of  for  the  order  of  the  four  Sunday  services  ?" 

"I  thought,"  I  says,  "for  the  first  fifteen  min 
utes  or  so,  we  might  sing  together." 

"A  short  praise  service,"  says  he,  compre 
hending.  "Well  —  that's  a  little  out  of  the 
order  for  the  Sunday  morning  service,  but  it 
might  be  indulged." 

"Yes,"  I  says,  dry.  "Praise  ought  not  to 
offend  most  people.  And  then  I  thought  of  it 
for  what  it  does  to  people  to  sing  together  for  a 
while.  It  makes  real  things  seem  sort  of  possi 
ble,  I  always  think.  After  the  Doxology,  we 
might  start  in  with  'America,'  and " 

"America  ?"  says  he. 


THE  TIME  HAS  COME  69 

I  waited.  I  thought  the  next  observation 
belonged  to  him. 

"We've  sung  'America'  at  Sunday  evening 
mass  meetings,"  he  says,  "but  for  the  opening 
hymn  of  the  regular  morning  worship  —  still, 
of  course  it's  in  the  hymnal.  I  suppose  there  is 
really  no  objection." 

"That,"  says  I,  "was  how  I  looked  at  it. 
There's  no  objection.  Then  the  Lord's  prayer 
—  all  of  us  together.  And  the  reading  —  some 
thing  read  from  one  heart  right  to  another, 
wouldn't  it  be  ?  And  then  we  might  sing 
again  —  'Love  For  Every  Unloved  Creature,' 
or  something  of  that  sort.  I  think,"  I  says, 
"we'd  ought  to  be  very  careful  what  hymns  we 
pick  out,  for  these  Sundays.  Take  just  the 
religious  ones,  why  don't  you  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  our  minister. 
"What  did  you  say  then  ?" 

"Well,  for  instance,"  I  says.  .  .  . 

"'The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain. 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar. 
Who  follows  in  his  train  ? ' 

I  call  a  good  deal  of  that  hymn  immoral.  Think 
of  that  gentle  soul  caring  to  gain  a  kingly  crown. 
Think  of  his  having  a  blood-red  banner.  Think 


70  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

of  him  going  forth  to  war.  It's  a  wicked  hymn, 
some  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  our  minister,  "those  things 
are  just  figurative.  You  mustn't  take  them  too 
literally,  Miss  Marsh." 

I  looked  over  at  him,  across  my  cherries. 

"We're  saying  that  pretty  often  these  days," 
I  said.  "Sometimes  it's  glorious  true  and 
sometimes  it's  stupid  false." 

"Well,"  he  says,  "that  needn't  enter  into  the 
services  for  these  Sundays.  We  plight  of  course 
do  well  to  pick  out  the  hymns  with  care.  What 
else  had  you  thought  of  ?" 

"I  thought,"  I  said,  "of  having  the  Sunday 
School  come  in  then  and  march  down  the  aisle, 
singing  —  not  £We  Are  Little  Soldiers,'  or  any 
thing  like  that,  but '  I  Think  When  I  Read  That 
Sweet  Story  of  Old,'  say.  And  then  have  them 
repeat  something  —  well,"  I  says,  "I  found  a 
little  verse  the  other  day.  I  never  saw  it  before 
—  mebbe  you  have.  I've  been  meaning  to  ask 
the  superintendent  how  it  would  be  to  have  the 
children  learn  to  say  that." 

I  said  it  for  him  : 

"'The  year's  at  the  Spring, 
The  day's  at  the  morn, 
Morning's  at  seven, 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled. 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  71 

The  lark's  on  the  wing, 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn, 
God's  in  his  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world.' 

And  then,"  I  says,  "have  them  add:  'And 
oh  God,  help  the  last  line  to  get  to  be  true 
for  everybody,  and  help  me  to  help  make  it 
true.  Amen.'  That,"  I  says,  "might  do  for 
one  day.  Then  you  talk  to  'em  for  five  minutes. 
And  then  dismiss  them." 

"Dismiss  them  ?"  he  said.  "Not  have  them 
remain  to  the  service  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  I  says,  "not  unless  you  can  inter 
est  and  occupy  them.  Which  no  sermons  do  for 
little  children." 

"Where  would  the  mothers  that  are  in  church 
send  their  children  to  ?"  says  he. 

"We  ought  to  have  the  rooms  downstairs 
open,"  I  says,  "and  have  somebody  in  charge, 
and  have  quiet  exercises  and  story-telling  and 
pictures  for  them." 

"My  dear  Miss  Marsh,"  he  says,  "that  would 
be  a  revolution." 

"True,"  says  I,  serene.  "Ain't  life  odd?" 
I  adds.  "One  minute  we're  saying,  shocked: 
'  But  that  would  be  a  revolution.'  And  the  next 
minute  we're  harping  away  on  keeping  alive  the 
revolutionary  spirit.  I  wonder  which  of  the 
two  we  really  mean  ?" 


72  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

"Well,  then,  what  else  ?"  says  he,  pacific. 

"Then,"  I  says,  "  I  wish  we  could  have  five 
minutes  of  silent  prayer.  And  then  right  off,  the 
sermon  —  and  no  hymn  after  that  at  all,  but 
let  the  sermon  end  with  the  benediction  —  a 
real  cry  to  God  to  be  with  us  and  to  live  in  us. 
That's  all." 

I  had  to  go  out  in  the  kitchen  then  to  empty 
a  bowl  of  my  pitted  fruit,  and  when  I  come  back 
the  minister  stood  there,  smiling. 

"Ah,  Miss  Marsh,"  he  said,  "you've  for 
gotten  a  very  important  thing.  You've  for 
gotten  the  collection." 

"No,"  says  I.  "No,  I  haven't.  Except  on 
the  days  when  it's  a  real  offering  for  some  work 
for  God.  I'd  take  a  collection  then.  The  rest 
of  the  time  I'd  have  the  minister's  salary  and 
the  fuel  and  the  kerosene  paid  for  by  checks, 
private." 

After  he'd  gone,  I  set  there  going  over,  miser 
able,  the  things  I'd  said  to  him  about  the  serv 
ices  that  it  was  his  job  to  do.  And  though  I 
was  miserable  enough  —  I  honestly  couldn't  be 
sorry.  You  know  the  difference  in  them  two  ? 

I  was  to  engage  Lavvy  Whitmore  to  lead  our 
singing  for  the  four  Sundays,  and  I  went  over  to 
see  her  the  next  afternoon.  She  was  cleaning 
the  lamps  when  I  stepped  up  to  the  kitchen  door, 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  73 

so  I  went  right  In  and  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the 
table,  and  helped  her  with  the  chimneys.  She 
was  a  pretty  little  thing  —  little,  but  with  black 
eyes  that  mentioned  her  thoughts  before  ever 
any  of  the  rest  of  her  agreed  to  announce  'em. 
And  plenty  of  thoughts,  too,  Lavvy  had.  She 
wasn't  one  of  the  girls  that  is  turned  out  by  the 
thousands,  that  wouldn't  recognize  their  own 
minds  if  they  was  to  meet  'em  unbeknownst ;  but 
one  that  her  mind  was  cut  out,  careful,  by  a 
pattern  part  of  her  own  selecting,  and  not  a 
pattern  just  laid  on  to  it,  haphazard,  by  the 
folks  that  she  lived  neighbor  to,  and  went  with 
when  she  went. 

"Lavvy,"  I  says,  "we  want  to  speak  for  you 
to  sing  to  our  church  the  four  Sundays  in  Sep 
tember,  when  we  have  special  services  to  get 
everybody  to  go,  so's  everybody '11  see  everybody 
else  going,  and  go  too.  Can  we  ?  Will  you  ?" 

"I've  been  spoke  for,"  says  she,  "by  the  White 
Frame  church  for  the  four  September  Sundays. 
For  the  same  reason." 

"Go  on  !"  I  says.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  they're  going  to  have  a  competition  re 
vival  ?" 

"Well,"  she  says,  "they're  going  to  make  an 
extra  effort  to  get  folks  out  for  the  four  Sun 
days." 


74  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Copied  it  off'n  us,"  I  says  thoughtful. 
"Well,  I  guess  the  four  Sundays  can't  be  regu 
larly  copyrighted  by  us,  can  they  ?  But  I 
thought  their  minister  didn't  like  revivals  ? " 
I  says. 

"Oh,  he  don't  —  Elbert  Kinsman  don't," 
says  Lavvy.  "It's  the  rest  of  'em  wants  it.  He 
told  me  he  thought  it  was  a  mistake." 

"That  young  Elbert  Kinsman,"  I  says,  "he 
loves  folks.  I  saw  it  in  his  face  long  ago." 

Lavvy  went  on  trimming  wicks. 

"And  then  the  Red  Brick  church,"  says  she, 
"they've  spoke  for  me  to  sing  for  them  for  the 
four  Sundays  in  September  too." 

"Land  of  life,"  I  says,  "they  haven't !  What 
on  earth  have  they  done  that  for  ? " 

"Oh,"  says  Lavvy,  "to  get  everybody  to  go, 
so's  everybody'll  see  everybody  else  going,  and 


"Don't,  Lavvy,"  I  says.  "That  makes  me 
feel  kind  of  sick." 

"So  it  done  to  me,"  she  says.  "And  I'll  tell 
you  the  same  as  I  told  them :  No,  I  won't  sing 
those  four  Sundays.  I  ain't  going  to  be  here. 
I  don't  know  yet  where  I'm  going,  but  I'll  go 
off  somewheres  —  where  things  are  better  —  if 
I  have  to  go  blackberrying  in  Shepherd's 
Grove." 


THE  TIME  HAS  COME  75 

"My  land,"  I  says,  "I've  a  great  good  notion 
to  get  my  pail  and  go  along  with  you." 

We  talked  about  it  quite  a  while  that  after-  t 
noon,  Lavvy  and  me.  And  though  all  along  I'd 
been  feeling  sort  of  sore  and  sick  over  the  whole 
idea  —  and  I  might  have  known  that  I  was,  by 
the  chip-shouldered  way  I  had  talked  to  our 
minister  —  still,  it  wasn't  till  there  by  the  lamps 
that  I  come  to  a  realization  of  myself,  and  of 
some  other  things  just  as  foolish,  and  that  I 
faced  around  and  begun  to  ask  myself,  plain, 
what  in  the  world  was  what. 

For  it  was  as  true  as  possible :  As  soon  as  it 
got  out  around  that  our  church  was  laying  plans 
for  a  revival  —  not  an  evangelist  revival,  but  a 
home-made  one  —  it  had  happened  just  as 
might  have  been  expected.  The  other  two 
churches  was  afraid  we'd  get  their  folks  away 
from  them,  and  they  says  they'd  make  an  extra 
effort  to  get  folks  out,  as  well.  They  fell  into 
the  same  hope  —  to  "fill  up"  the  churches,  and 
see  if  we  couldn't  get  folks  started  attending 
regular.  Somebody  suggested  having  a  month's 
union  services  in  each  of  the  three  churches,  but 
they  voted  that  three  months  of  this  would  get 
monotonous,  while  the  novelty  of  the  other  way 
would  "get  folks  out." 

No  sooner  had  we  all  settled  on  that,  then  we 


76  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

slipped,  by  the  gradualest  degrees,  into  the  next 
step,  that  was  as  inevitable  as  two  coming  after 
one.  We  begun  being  secret  about  what  we 
meant  to  have,  not  telling  what  the  order  of 
exercises  was  going  to  be,  or  what  special  music 
we  was  getting  up.  And  then  come  along  the 
next  thing,  as  regular  as  three  coming  after  two 
—  we  begun  sort  of  running  one  another  to  see 
who  could  get  the  most  folks.  At  first  we  sent 
out  printed  invitations  addressed  to  likely 
spots  ;  then  we  took  to  calling  to  houses  by  com 
mittees,  and  delivering  invitations  in  person. 
Now  and  then  rival  visiting  committees  would 
accidentally  meet  to  the  same  house  and  each 
try  to  out-set  the  other.  And  from  this,  one  or 
two  things  developed,  as  things  will,  that  made  a 
little  uppishness  here  and  there.  For  out  of 
certain  situations,  uppishness  does  seem  to 
arise,  same  as  cream  out  of  milk,  or  dust  out  of 
furniture. 

One  afternoon  I  looked  out  my  window,  and 
I  see  the  three  Sunday  school  superintendents 
come  marching  up  my  brick  walk  —  ain't  it 
funny  how,  when  men  goes  out  with  a  proposi 
tion  for  raising  pew-rent,  or  buying  a  new  fur 
nace  for  the  manse,  or  helping  along  the  town, 
they  always  go  two  or  three  strong  ?  If  you 
notice,  they  do. 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  77 

"Come  right  in,  gentlemen,"  I  says.  "If  it's 
money,  I  can't  give  you  a  cent.  If  it's  work,  I'm 
drove  to  death  as  it  is.  But  if  it's  advice,  I  do 
enjoy  myself  giving  that." 

It  was  our  own  superintendent  that  spoke,  as 
being  the  least  foreign  to  me,  I  s'pose,  —  though 
it  happened  that  I  was  better  acquainted  with 
both  the  other  two. 

"It's  neither,  Miss  Marsh,"  he  says,  "it's 
some  ideas  we  want  off'n  you.  We've  got," 
says  he,  "a  plan." 

Then  he  unrolled  it,  assisted  by  the  other  two. 

"We  thought,"  he  says,  "that  in  all  this  added 
interest  in  church  attendance  which  we  are  hop 
ing  to  stimulate,  the  three  churches  had  ought  to 
pull  together  a  little." 

At  that  my  heart  jumped  up.  It  was  what  I 
had  been  longing  for,  and  grieving  because  it 
didn't  come  true. 

"We  thought  we'd  ought  to  have  a  little  more 
community  effort,"  says  the  White  Frame  super 
intendent,  clearing  his  throat.  I  guess  he  knew 
how  that  word  "community"  always  gets  me. 
I'd  rather  read  that  one  word  than  half  the  whole 
books  on  the  market. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  says.     "Yes  !     I  think  so  too.". 

"We  thought  we'd  ought  to  make  the  experi 
ence  one  of  particular  blessing  and  fellowship," 


78  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

says  the  Red  Brick  superintendent,  fairly  beam 
ing. 

And  me,  the  simple  soul,  I  beamed  back. 

"Count  on  me,"  says  I,  fervent,  "to  do  any 
thing  in  the  world  to  help  on  a  thing  like  that !" 

"  We  were  sure  of  it,"  said  our  superintendent, 
"and  that  is  why  we  have  come  to  you.  Now," 
says  he,  "the  idea  is  this  :  We  thought  we'd  each 
take  a  color  —  give  each  church  a  color,  you 
know." 

"A  color?"  says  I. 

"Exactly,"  says  he.  "The  White  Frames 
white.  The  Red  Bricks  red.  And  us  blue. 
Then  on  each  of  the  four  Sundays  the  number 
present  in  the  three  churches  will  be  kept  track 
of  and  totaled  at  the  end  of  the  month.  And,  at 
the  end  of  the  month,  the  church  having  had  the 
largest  attendance  for  the  whole  time  shall  be 
given  a  banquet  by  the  other  two.  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ?" 

What  did  I  say  to  that  ?  Somehow  I  got  them 
out  of  the  house,  telling  them  I'd  send  them 
word  later.  When  I  feel  as  deep  as  I  did  then, 
I  know  I  can't  do  justice,  by  just  thoughts  or 
just  words,  to  what  I  mean  inside.  So  I  let 
the  men  go  off  the  best  I  could.  And  then  I 
went  back  into  my  sitting  room,  with  the  August 
sun  pouring  in  all  acrost  the  air  like  some  kind 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  79 

of  glory  that  we  didn't  understand ;  and  I  set 
down  in  it,  and  thought.  And  the  thing  that 
come  to  me  was  them  early  days,  them  first 
days  when  the  first  Christians  were  trying  to 
plan  ways  that  they  could  meet,  and  hoping  and 
longing  to  be  together,  and  finding  caves  and 
wild  places  where  they  could  gather  in  safety 
and  talk  about  their  wonderful  new  knowledge  of 
the  fatherhood  of  God  and  the  brotherhood  of 
man,  and  the  divine  experience  of  the  spirit, 
here  and  after.  And  then  I  thought  of  this  red, 
white  and  blue  denominational  banquet.  Oh, 
what  a  travesty  it  was  even  on  the  union  that 
the  three  colors  stand  for.  And  I  thought  of 
our  talk  about  "getting  people  out,"  and  "filling 
up  the  churches,"  and  I  thought  of  the  one  hun 
dred  and  fourteen  or  more  social  calls  that  we 
require  a  month  from  our  pastors.  And  I  says 
to  myself : 

"Oh,  Calliope  Marsh,  has  it  come  to  this  — 
has  it  ?  Is  it  like  this  only  in  Friendship  Village  ? 
Or  is  it  like  this  out  in  the  world  too  ?  And, 
either  way,  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

There  was  one  thing  I  could  do  about  it.  I 
went  to  see  our  minister  and  his  wife,  and  I  told 
'em  firm  that  I  couldn't  have  anything  more  to 
do  about  the  extra  September  services,  and  that 
they  would  have  to  get  somebody  else  to  play 


8o  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

the  organ  for  all  four  Sundays.  They  was  both 
grieved  —  and  I  hated  to  hurt  them.  That's 
the  worst  about  being  true  to  something  you 
believe  —  it  so  often  hurts  somebody  else.  But 
there  wasn't  any  other  way  to  do. 

"But  Miss  Marsh,"  says  our  minister,  "don't 
you  see  that  it  is  going  to  be  a  time  of  awakening 
if  we  all  stand  by  each  other  and  support  the 
meetings  ?" 

"Support  the  meetings  !"  I  wondered  how 
many  times,  in  those  first  days,  they  had  to 
argue  that.  But  I  didn't  say  anything  —  I  just 
sat  still  and  ached. 

"But  Miss  Marsh,"  said  the  minister's  wife, 
"we  have  so  depended  on  you.  And  your 
influence  —  what  about  that  ?" 

"I  can't  help  it,"  I  says  —  and  couldn't  say 
no  more. 

Mis'  Postmaster  Sykes  was  there,  and  she 
piped  up  : 

"But  it's  so  dignified,  Calliope,"  she  says. 
"No  soliciting,  no  pledging  people  to  be  present, 
no  money-begging  for  expenses.  No  anything 
except  giving  people  to  understand  that  not  at 
tending  ain't  real  respectable." 

It  was  them  words  that  give  me  the  strength 
to  get  up  and  go  home  without  breaking  down. 
And  all  the  way  up  Daphne  Street  I  went  saying 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  81 

it  over:  '"No  anything  except  giving  people  to 
understand  not  attending  ain't  real  respectable. 
No,  not  anything  only  just  that." 

Near  my  own  gate  I  come  on  young  Elbert 
Kinsman,  minister  of  the  White  Frame  church, 
going  along  alone. 

'"Oh,  Mr.  Kinsman,"  I  burst  out  unbeknownst, 
"can  you  imagine  Jesus  of  Nazareth  belonging 
to  a  denomination  ?" 

All  of  a  sudden,  that  young  minister  reached 
out  and  took  my  hand. 

"He  loved  men,"  he  said  only,  "and  he  was 
very  patient  with  them." 

And  then  I  went  into  my  dark  house,  with  some 
other  words  ringing  in  my  ears  :  "Lighten  mine 
eyes  —  lighten  mine  eyes,  lest  I  sleep  the  sleep 
of  the  dead." 

But  oh,  that  first  September  Sabbath  morning. 
It  was  one  of  them  days  that  is  still  all  deep 
Summer,  but  with  just  a  little  light  mantel  of 
Autumn  —  more  like  a  lace  boa  than  a  mantel, 
though  —  thrown  round  over  things.  It  was 
Summer  by  the  leaves,  by  the  air  it  was  Summer, 
by  the  gay  gardens  and  the  face  of  the  sky ; 
and  yet  somewhere,  hiding  inside,  was  a  little 
hint  of  yellow,  a  look  of  brown,  a  smell  in  the  wind 
maybe  —  that  let  you  know  it  was  something 


82  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

else  besides.  It  wasn't  that  the  time  was  any 
less  Summer.  It  was  just  that  it  was  Summer 
and  a  little  Autumn  too.  But  I  always  say  that 
you  can't  think  Autumn  without  thinking 
Winter ;  and  you  can't  think  Winter  without 
thinking  Spring;  and  Spring  and  Summer  are 
not  really  two,  but  just  one.  And  so  there  you 
have  the  whole  year  made  one  and  nothing 
divided.  .  .  .  What  if  God  were  intelligence 
and  spirit  harmonized  and  made  one  ?  What 
if  all  that  is  the  matter  with  us  is  just  that  we 
intelligences  and  spirits  have  not  yet  been 
harmonized  and  made  one  ? 

I've  got  a  little  old  piano  that  the  keys  rattle, 
and  Sunday  mornings,  for  years  now,  I  always 
go  to  that  after  breakfast,  and  sit  down  in  my 
apron,  and  play  some  anthems  that  I  remember : 
"As  Pants  the  Hart,"  and  "Glory  Be  to  God 
in  the  Highest,"  and  like  that.  I  did  it  that 
first  Autumn  Sunday  morning,  with  my  win 
dows  open  and  the  muslin  curtains  blowing  and 
the  sun  slanting  in,  and  a  little  smell  of  wild 
mint  from  the  bed  by  the  gate.  And  I  knew  all 
over  me  that  it  was  Sunday  morning  —  I'd 
have  known  it  no  matter  if  I  hadn't  known. 

For  all  I  took  as  long  as  I  could  doing  my 
dishes  and  brushing  up  the  floor  and  making  my 
bed  and  feeding  my  chickens,  it  was  only  half 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  83 

past  nine  when  I  was  all  through.  Then  I  got 
my  vegetables  ready  for  dinner,  and  made  me  a 
little  dessert,  and  still  it  was  not  quite  ten  o'clock. 
So  then  I  give  it  up  and  went  in,  and  sat  down 
where  I  could  see  them  go  past  to  church.  I  had 
wanted  to  keep  busy  till  after  half  past  ten, 
when  they'd  all  be  in  their  pews. 

Already  they  were  going  by,  folks  from  up  the 
street  and  round  the  corner :  some  that  didn't 
usually  go  and  that  I  couldn't  tell  which  of  the 
churches  they'd  be  going  to,  and  I  wondered  how 
they  could  tell  themselves ;  and  then  some  that 
sat  near  me  in  church,  and  that  I  usually  walked 
along  with. 

"No,"  I  thought,  "no  such  nonsense  as  this 
for  me.  Ever.  Nor  no  red,  white  and  blue 
banquet,  either." 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  first  bells  began  to 
ring.  All  the  little  churches  in  the  village  have 
bells  and  steeples  —  they  were  in  debt  for  them 
for  years.  But  the  bells  ...  all  my  life  long 
I'd  been  hearing  them  rung  Sunday  morning. 
All  my  life  I  had  answered  to  them  —  to  our 
special  one  because,  as  I  said,  my  father  had 
been  janitor  there,  and  he  had  rung  the  bell; 
but  just  the  same,  I  had  answered,  always. 
The  bells  had  meant  something  to  me.  They 
meant  something  now.  I  loved  to  hear  them. 


84  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Pretty  soon  they  stopped,  and  there  was  just  the 
tramp  of  feet  on  the  board  walk.  I  sat  there 
where  I  was,  without  moving,  the  quarter  of  an 
hour  until  the  bells  began  again.  And  when 
the  bells  began  again  it  seemed  as  if  they  rang 
right  there  in  the  room  with  me,  but  soft  and 
distant  too,  —  from  a  long  way  off  where  I 
wasn't  any  more.  Always  it  had  been  then,  at 
the  second  bell,  that  mother  had  stood  in  the  hall 
and  asked  me  if  I  was  ready.  ...  I  sat  there 
where  I  was,  the  quarter  of  an  hour  until  the 
bells  began  again,  and  I  knew  this  was  the  last 
bell,  that  would  end  in  the  five  strokes  —  rung 
slow,  and  that  when  they  stopped,  all  the  organs 
would  begin  together.  And  then  I  could  have 
cried  aloud  the  thing  that  had  been  going  in  me 
and  through  me  since  the  first  bell  had  begun  to 
ring: 

"Oh,  God.  It's  the  invisible  church  of  the 
living  God  —  it's  the  place  that  has  grown  out  of 
the  relation  of  men  to  you,  out  of  the  striving  of 
men  to  find  you,  and  out  of  their  longing  to 
draw  together  in  search  of  you.  It  is  our  invisi 
ble  church  from  the  old  time.  Why  then  — 
when  men  read  things  into  the  visible  church 
that  never  belonged  there,  when  there  has 
crept  into  and  clung  there  much  that  is  false, 
why  is  it  that  we  who  know  this  must  be  the 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  85 

ones  to  withdraw  ?  It  is  your  church  and  the 
church  of  all  those  who  try  to  know  you. 
What  shall  we  do  to  make  it  whole  ?" 

Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing,  I  was  slipping 
my  long  cloak  on  over  my  work-dress,  and  then 
I  was  out  on  the  street.  And  I  remember  that  as 
I  went,  the  thing  that  kept  pouring  through  my 
mind  was  that  I  wasn't  the  only  one.  But  that 
all  over,  in  other  towns  at  that  very  hour,  there 
were  those  whose  hearts  were  aching  as  mine 
had  ached,  and  who  had  nowhere  to  go.  I  don't 
know  yet  what  I  meant  to  do ;  but  over  and 
over  in  my  head  the  words  kept  going  : 
"What  shall  we  do  to  make  it  whole  ?" 
The  last  bell  had  stopped  when  I  came  to  the 
little  grassy  triangle  where  the  three  churches 
faced.  And  usually,  on  Sunday  mornings,  by 
the  time  the  last  bell  has  rung,  the  triangle  is 
still  except  for  a  few  hurrying  late-comers. 
But  now,  when  I  turned  the  corner  and  faced  it, 
I  saw  people  everywhere.  Before  each  little 
church  the  steps,  the  side-walk,  and  out  in  the 
street,  were  thronged  with  people,  and  people 
were  flowing  out  into  the  open  spaces.  And  in 
a  minute  I  sensed  it :  There  wasn't  room. 
There  wasn't  room  —  for  there  were  fifteen  hun 
dred  people  living  in  Friendship  Village,  and  all 
the  little  churches  of  the  town  together  wouldn't 


86  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

hold  that  many,  nor  even  as  many  of  them  as 
were  assembled  there  that  day.  But  instead 
of  thinking  what  to  do,  and  how  not  to  waste 
the  time  when  so  many  had  got  together,  all 
that  kept  going  through  my  head  was  those 
same  words  that  I  had  been  saying : 
"What  shall  we  do  to  make  it  whole  ?" 
And  yet  those  words  were  what  made  me 
think  what  to  do.  On  the  steps  of  our  church 
I  saw  our  superintendent,  looking  wild  and 
worried,  and  I  ran  right  up  to  him,  and  I  said 
two  words.  And  in  a  minute  those  two  words 
went  round,  and  they  spoke  them  in  the  crowd, 
and  they  announced  them  inside  our  church, 
and  somebody  went  with  those  words  to  the 
other  churches .  And  then  we  were  all  moving  out 
and  along  together  to  where  the  two  words 
pointed  us  :  Shepherd's  Grove. 

There's  a  rough  old  bandstand  in  Shepherd's 
Grove  where  once,  long  ago,  the  German  band 
used  to  give  evening  concerts.  The  bandstand 
had  nearly  fallen  to  pieces,  but  it  was  large 
enough.  The  three  ministers  went  up  there 
together,  and  round  the  base  of  the  bandstand 
came  gathering  the  three  choirs,  and  in  a  minute 
or  two  there  we  all  were  under  the  trees  of  the 
Grove,  the  common  trees,  that  made  a  home 
for  us  all,  on  the  common  earth,  under  the 
common  sky. 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  87 

"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow" 
came  first,  because  it  said  the  thing  that  was  in 
the  hearts  of  us  all.  And  then  we  wondered 
what  would  be,  because  of  the  three  separate 
sermons  up  there  before  us,  all  prepared, 
careful,  by  three  separate  ministers,  in  three 
separate  manses,  for  three  separate  congregations. 
But  the  thing  seemed  to  settle  itself.  For  it  was 
young  Elbert  Kinsman  who  rose,  and  he  didn't 
have  any  prepared  sermon  in  his  hands.  His 
hands  were  empty  when  he  stretched  them  out 
toward  us.  And  he  said  : 

"My  friends  and  fellow-lovers  of  God,  and 
seekers  for  his  law  in  our  common  life,  this  is  for 
me  an  end  and  a  beginning.  As  I  live,  it  is  for 
me  the  end  of  the  thing  that  long  has  irked  me, 
that  irks  us  all,  that  we  are  clinging  to  nobody 
can  tell  why,  or  of  whose  will.  I  mean  the  divi 
sion  of  unreason  in  the  household  of  love.  For 
me  the  folly  and  the  waste  and  the  loss  of  effi 
ciency  of  denominationalism  have  forever  ceased. 
In  this  hour  begins  for  me  a  new  day :  The  day 
when  I  stand  with  all  men  who  strive  to  know 
God,  and  call  myself  by  no  name  save  the  name 
which  we  all  bear :  Children  of  the  Father,  and 
brothers  to  Man."  • 

I  don't  know  what  else  he  said  —  I  heard,  but 
I  heard  it  in  something  that  wasn't  words, 


88  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

but  that  was  nearer,  and  closer  up  to,  and 
clearer  in  my  ears  than  any  words.  And  I 
knew  that  what  he  was  saying  had  been  sounding 
in  my  heart  for  long ;  and  that  I  had  heard 
it  trying  to  speak  from  the  hearts  of  others ; 
and  that  it  wasn't  only  in  Friendship  Village, 
but  it  was  all  over  the  world  that  people  are 
ready  and  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  way  that 
had  been  shown  to  us  that  day.  Who  knows 
how  it  will  come  at  last,  —  or  what  form  it  will 
take  ?  But  we  do  know  that  the  breaking  down 
of  the  meaningless  barriers  must  come  first. 

When  the  young  minister  had  finished,  we 
stood  for  a  moment  in  silent  prayer.  You  can 
not  stand  still  in  the  woods  and  empty  out  your 
own  will,  without  prayer  being  there  instead, 
quiet,  like  love. 

Then  all  together,  and  as  if  a  good  many  of  us 
had  thought  of  it  first,  we  began  to  sing : 

"There's  a  wideness  in  God's  loving 
Like  the  wideness  of  the  sea  .  .  .   ' 

No  sooner  had  we  begun  than  deep  in  the 
wood,  clear  and  sweet  above  the  other  singing, 
there  came  a  voice  that  we  all  knew.  It 
was  Lavvy  —  I  stood  where  I  could  see  her 
coming.  She  was  in  a  cotton  dress,  and  she 
had  done  as  she  had  said  —  gone  into  the  wood  — 


THE  TIME  HAS   COME  89 

" where  better  things  are."  And  there  we  had 
come  to  find  them  too.  She  came  down  the 
green  aisles,  singing ;  and  we  were  all  singing 
—  I  wish  I  might  have  been  where  I  could  hear 
that  singing  mount.  But  I  was,  and  we  all 
were,  where  we  could  look  into  one  another's 
hearts  and  read  there  the  common  longing  to 
draw  near  unto  God.  And  the  great  common 
God  was  in  our  midst. 


THE    FACE    OF    FRIENDSHIP   VILLAGE 

THE  day  that  they  denominated  Threat 
Hubbelthwait  for  mayor  of  Friendship  Village 
was  band-concert  night.  It's  real  back-aching 
work  to  go  to  our  band  concerts,  because  we 
ain't  no  seats  —  nothing  but  a  bandstand  in  the 
middle  of  the  market  square ;  but  yet  we  all  of 
us  do  go,  because  it's  something  to  do.  And 
you  die  —  you  die  for  some  place  to  go  to  see 
folks  and  to  move  around  among  them,  elbow 
near. 

I  was  resting  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  band 
stand  between  tunes,  when  Mis'  Timothy  Top- 
lady  come  by. 

"Hold  up  your  head,"  says  she.  "You're 
going  to  be  mayored  over  in  a  minute  by  a  man 
that  ain't  been  drunk  for  six  months.  I  dunno 
but  they  used  that  in  the  campaign.  This  town 
ain't  got  a  politic  to  its  name." 

"Do  they  know  yet,"  I  ask'  her,  "who's 
going  to  run  against  him  ?" 

"I  heard  'Lish  Warren,"  says  Mis'  Toplady. 
"They  want  Eppleby  to  run  interdependent, 
but  he  won't  leave  himself  down  to  run  against 

90 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE      91 

Threat  and  'Lish,  I  don't  believe.  I  wish't," 
Mis'  Toplady  says,  "I  was  men." 

But  all  of  a  sudden  she  sort  of  straightened  up 
there  to  the  foot  of  the  bandstand. 

"No",  I  don't,"  she  says.  '"I  wish't  I  was  a 
human  being.  A  human  being  like  the  Lord 
meant  me  to  be,  with  a  finger  in  His  big  pie  as 
well  as  in  Timothy  Toplady's  everlasting  apple- 
pie.  I  wish't  —  oh,  I  wish't  I  was  a  real  human 
being,  with  my  brains  in  my  head  instead  of 
baked  into  pies  and  stitched  into  clothes  and 
used  to  clean  up  floors  with." 

I've  often  wished  that,  too,  and  every 
woman  had  ought  to.  But  Mis'  Toplady  had 
ought  to  wish  it  special.  She's  big  and  strong 
of  limb,  and  she  can  lift  and  carry  and  put 
through,  capable  and  swift.  She's  like  a  woman 
left  from  some  time  of  the  world  when  women 
was  some  human-beinger  than  they  are  now,  and 
she's  like  looking  ahead  a  thousand  years. 

"But  just  half  a  human,"  she  says  now, 
dreamy,  "would  know  that  election  day  ought 
to  be  differn't  from  the  run  o'  days.  Some  men 
votes,"  she  says,  "like  they  used  the  same 
muscles  for  votin'  that  they  use  for  bettin'  and 
buyin'  and  sellin'.  I  wonder  if  they  do." 

When  the  band  started  to  play,  we  moved 
over  towards  the  sidewalk.  And  there  we  come 


92  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

on  Timothy  Toplady  and  Silas  and  Mis'  Sykes 
and  Eppleby  Holcomb  and  Mame,  and  two-three 
more.  We  stood  there  together,  listening  to  the 
nice,  fast  tune.  They  must  have  been  above 
six-seven  hundred  folks  around  the  square,  all 
standing  quiet  in  the  rings  of  the  arc  lights  or  in 
the  swinging  shadows,  listening  too. 

The  market  square  is  a  wonderful,  big  open 
place  to  have  in  the  middle  of  a  town.  It  had 
got  set  aside  years  ago  to  be  a  park  some  day, 
and  while  it  was  a-waiting  for  parkhood,  the 
town  used  the  edge  of  it  for  a  market  and  wood- 
yard.  It  stretched  away  'most  to  the  track  and 
the  Pump  pasture,  and  on  three  sides  of  it 
Friendship  Village  lay  —  that  night  with  stores 
shut  up  and  most  of  the  houses  shut  up  while 
folks  took  their  ease  —  though  it  was  a  back- 
aching  ease  —  hearing  the  nice,  fast,  late  tunes. 

Right  while  we  was  keeping  still,  up  slouched 
Threat  Hubbelthwait,  the  new  mayor  nominee. 

"Evenin',"  says  he,  with  no  reverence  for  the 
tune.  "Ain't  this  here  my  dance  ?" 

"I  heard  you  was  up  to  lead  us  one,"  says 
Mis'  Toplady,  dry. 

Threat  took  it  for  congratulations.  " Thank 
you  kindly,"  says  he,  easy.  "It's  a  great  trust 
you  folks  are  talkin'  of  placin'  in  me." 

"Oh,  'most  everybody  in  town  has  beentrustin' 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE      93 

you  for  years,  ain't  they,  Threat?"  says  Mis' 
Toplady,  sweet. 

That  scairt  Timothy,  her  lawful  lord,  and  he 
talked  fast  to  cover  up,  but  Threat  pretended  not 
to  hear  anyway,  and  pretty  soon  he  slouched  on. 
And  when  the  piece  was  over,  and  the  clapping : 

"Mercy,"  says  Mame  Holcomb,  "the  disgrace 
it'll  be  to  have  that  man  for  mayor  !  How'd 
he  get  himself  picked  out  ?" 

Silas  Sykes  explained  it.  "Threat  Hub- 
belthwait,"  says  he,  "is  the  only  man  in  this 
town  that  can  keep  the  party  in  at  this  election. 
If  Threat  don't  run,  the  party's  out." 

"Why  not  leave  the  party  go  out,  then  ?" 
says  Mis'  Toplady,  innocent. 

"Listen  at  that!"  says  Silas.  "Leave  the 
party  go  out !  What  do  we  belong  to  the  party 
for  if  we're  willing  to  leave  it  go  out  ?" 

"What,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  troubled,  "do 
you  belong  to  it  for  if  you're  willing  to  leave  it 
stay  in  along  with  a  bad  man  ?" 

"We  stand  by  the  party  to  keep  the  party  from 
being  disrupted,  woman,"  says  Silas. 

Mis'  Toplady  looks  at  him,  puzzled. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "I  have  made  an  apple-pie 
to  keep  the  apples  from  spoiling,  but  yet  that 
wasn't  the  real,  true  purpose  of  the  pie." 

Eppleby  Holcomb  kind  of  chuckled,  and  just 


94  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

then  we  all  got  jostled  for  a  minute  with  a  lot 
passing  us.  Lem  Toplady  come  by,  his  girl  on 
his  arm,  and  a  nice,  sheepish  grin  for  his  mother. 
Jimmy  Sturgis,  Jr.,  and  Hugh  Merriman  and 
Mis'  Uppers's  boy  and  two-three  more  of  that 
crowd,  with  boys'  eyes  in  brown  faces,  and  nice, 
manly  ways  to  their  shoulders.  Everybody  was 
walking  round  between  tunes.  And  everywhere, 
in  and  out,  under  foot,  went  the  children,  eight, 
ten,  twelve  years  apiece  to  'em,  and  couldn't  be 
left  home  because  they  wasn't  anybody  to  leave 
'em  with.  And  there  they  was,  waiting  to  be 
Friendship  Village  when  the  rest  of  us  should 
get  out  of  the  market  square  for  good  ;  and  there 
was  Friendship  Village,  over  beyond  the  arc  light, 
waiting  to  be  their  town. 

"Eppleby,"  I  says,  "why  don't  you  run  against 
Threat,  and  mayor  this  town  like  it  ought  to  be  ?" 

"Because,"  Silas  spoke  up  for  him,  "Eppleby 
belongs  to  the  party." 

"You  do?"  says  I  to  Eppleby.  "Well,  if 
Threat,  that  would  like  to  see  the  world  run 
backwards,  and  you,  that's  a-pushing  some  on 
the  west  side  like  the  Lord  meant  —  if  you  two 
belongs  to  the  same  party,  I  bet  the  party's 
about  ready  to  come  in  two  pieces  anyhow. 
Why  don't  you  leave  it  go,  and  get  denominated 
on  your  own  hook,  Eppleby  ?"  I  ask'  him. 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE      95 

'"I'm  going  to  if  'Lish  gets  put  up,"  he  says 
low,  to  me.  But  out  loud  he  says,  careless : 
"I  couldn't  beat  the  saloon  folks.  They're 
solid  for  Threat." 

"But  ain't  we  more  folks  to  this  town  than 
them  ?"  Mame  asks. 

"Yes,"  says  Eppleby,  "but  they  don't  vote. 
Half  the  best  men  won't  touch  the  city  hall  with 
a  clothes  prop.  The  business  men  can't  vote 
much  —  they've  got  too  mixed  a  trade,  both 
sides  eatin'  groceries  and  wearin'  clothes.  And 
election  time  comes  when  them  out  towards  the 
city  limits  is  doing  Spring  plowin'  and  won't 
bother  to  come  in  town.  (We'd  took  in  most  of 
the  surrounding  country  in  our  efforts  to  beat 
out  Red  Barns  in  population.)  And  the  Evening 
Daily  was  give  to  understand  six  months  ago 
that  the  brewery  ad.  would  come  out  if  Threat 
wa'n't  their  ticket.  Anybody  that  runs  against 
him  is  beat  before  the  polls  open." 

"Among  'em  all,  what  about  the  town?" 
says  I. 

Mis'  Sykes  spoke  up,  majestic.  "The  town," 
says  she,  "is  as  good  as  any  town.  I'm  sure 
we've  got  as  many  nice  residences  and  well-kep' 
yards,  and  as  many  modern  improvements 
as  most  towns  our  size.  My  part,  I'm  too 
patriotic  to  be  all  the  time  askin'  for  more." 


96  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"I  wonder,  Mis'  Sykes,"  I  couldn't  help 
saying,  "you  ain't  too  religious  ever  to  pray 
about  yourself." 

The  band  always  plays  "America"  to  go 
home  on,  not  so  much  out  of  patriotism,  I 
guess,  as  to  let  folks  know  it's  time  to  go  home. 
And  just  as  they  was  tuning  up,  Mis'  Toplady 
leaned  over  to  me,  brooding. 

'"I  wouldn't  care  so  much,"  she  says,  "if  it 
wasn't  Lem's  first  vote.  Lem  was  twenty-one 
in  the  spring,  and  it's  his  first  vote.  I  just 
can't  bear  to  think  of  his  voting  for  Threat  or 
'Lish,  to  cut  his  voting  teeth  on." 

"I  know,"  I  says.  "So  it  is  Hugh  Merri- 
man's  first  vote  —  and  Mis'  Uppers's  boy  and 
Jimmy  Sturgis's,  Jr.  Don't  it  seem  too  bad  ?" 

Mis'  Toplady  looked  at  the  men.  "Couldn't 
you  do  something  to  your  election  day  that  you 
own  so  personal  ?"  she  snaps.  "Couldn't  you 
make  it  a  day  that  is  a  day  ?  A  day  that  would 
make  folks  want  to  vote  decent,  and  be  some 
kitterin'-minded  about  votin'  bad  ?" 

"Like  what  ?"  says  Timothy,  blank. 

"Oh  —  I  dunno,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  restless. 
"Somethin'  that'll  roust  folks  up  and  give  'em 
to  see  their  town  like  a  wagon  to  be  pulled  and 
not  one  to  be  rode  in.  Exercises,  mebbe " 

"Exercises!"    says    Silas    Sykes,    explosive. 


THE  FACE  OF   FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE      97 

"You'll  be  wantin'  the  stores  closed  election 
day,  next  thing." 

"I  mean  that  now,"  says  Mis'  Toplady. 
"Exercises,"  she  went  on,  "that'll  show  'em 
what's  being  done  for  'em  in  the  world  —  and 
the  universe  —  and  I  dunno  but  other  places. 
Exercises  that'll  make  'em  think  ahead  and 
out,  and  up  and  in  the  air  instead  of  just  down 
into  their  pocketbooks.  I  dunno.  Exercises 
that'll  make  'em  see  the  state  like  a  state,  their 
state " 

"My  dum,  woman,"  says  Silas,  "election  day 
ain't  no  Fourth  of  July  proceedings." 

"Ain't  it?"  says  Mis'  Toplady.  "That's 
what  I  dunno.  It  kind  of  seems  to  me  as  if 
it  was." 

Then  the  band  jabbed  into  "America"  abun 
dant,  and  the  men  took  off  their  hats,  patriotic 
as  pictures.  And  I  stood  there,  kind  of  looking 
at  us  all  while  we  listened.  I  see  all  them  hun 
dreds  of  us  out  of  the  stores  and  houses  of  Friend 
ship  Village  that  was  laying  over  behind  us  there 
in  the  dark,  waiting  for  us  to  keep  on  a-making 
it ;  and  I  see  Lem  Toplady  and  the  rest  of  'em 
going  to  do  their  first  move  public  towards  the 
making.  And  while  the  band  was  playing  and 
everybody  humming  their  country's  air,  negli 
gent  in  their  throats,  I  started  to  slip  off  —  I 


98  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

couldn't  help  it  —  and  to  go  home  by  the  back 
street,  like  I  didn't  want  to  meet  the  village  face 
to  face. 

But  I  hadn't  got  very  far  when  the  band  done 
a  thing  it's  been  doing  lately  —  ever  since  the 
new  leader  come  that's  some  kind  of  a  foreigner 
up  to  the  round-house.  It  run  off  into  some 
kind  of  a  French  piece  with  a  wonderful  tang  to  it. 
The  children  have  been  singing  it  in  school, 
with  some  different  words  to  it,  and  when  the 
band  begun  it  now,  they  all  kind  of  hummed  it, 
all  over  the  square.  The  Marseilles,  I  think  they 
call  it  —  like  a  kind  of  cloth.  When  I  hear  it,  it 
always  makes  me  want  to  go  and  start  some 
thing.  It  done  that  now.  And  I  says  to  myself  : 

'"What  you  slinkin'  off  home  for,  actin'  like 
the  'best'  people  that  can't  look  their  town  in  the 
face  at  election  time  ?  Go  on  down  Daphne 
Street  like  a  citizen,  that  you  are  one." 

And  I  did,  and  walked  along  the  little  watching 
streets  with  all  the  rest  of  us,  and  that  march 
music  in  my  heels.  And  listening  to  it,  and  see 
ing  us  all  streaming  to  our  homes,  I  could  'most 
have  felt  like  we  \jras  rea^  folks  living  in  a  real 
town,  like  towns  was  meant  to  be. 

But  I  lost  the  feeling  two  days  after,  when 
'Lish  got  the  other  denomination,  and  begun 
swaggering  around  similar  to  Threat,  peddling 


THE  FACE;  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    99 

promises.  When  'Lish  done  that,  though, 
Eppleby  done  like  he  said  and  come  out  to  run 
interdependent;  only  he  done  it  real  half 
hearted,  and  them  that  signed  his  petition  was 
mostly  out  of  business  or  retired  or  working  for 
the  Government  or  ministers  or  like  that,  and 
everybody  thought  they  was  about  the  only  ones 
that  would  be  to  the  polls  for  him.  Because  the 
rest  was  already  engaged  in  uttering  the  same 
old  fear  that  voting  for  Eppleby  now  would  be 
throwing  their  vote  away.  And  they  allowed 
that  Threat  was  a  little  better  than  'Lish,  or  that 
'Lish  was  a  little  nobler  than  Threat,  and  they 
laid  to  vote  according. 

'"If  only  the  town  could  get  rousted  up  some 
how,"  Mis'  Toplady  kep'  saying,  grieving. 
"It  seems  as  if,  if  there  was  something  to  roust 
folks,  they'd  do  something.  And  if  they'd  only 
do  something,  they'd  get  rousted.  It's  like  a 
snake  with  its  tail  in  its  mouth.  It  seems  as  if, 
if  we  could  have  some  doin's  on  election  day  — 
oh,  I  wish't  we  was  a  real  human  being,"  she 
says,  again  and  again,  "I  wish't  we  was.  I  bet 
we'd  wind  this  town  up,  and  we  wouldn't  set  it 
by  Threat's  watch  nor  by  'Lish's,  either.  We'd 
set  it  by  the  sun." 

But  we  see  we  couldn't  take  no  part.  And  the 
town  settled  down  on  its  oars  restful,  waiting 


TOO  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

for  election  day  that  looked  like  it  wasn't  going 
to  do  nothing  but  shake  up  the  town  feather-bed 
and  lay  it  back  on  springs  that  sagged  in  the 
same  old  place. 

Three  days  before  election  it  happened  I  was 
up  early  to  mix  my  bread.  The  clock  showed 
half-past  six  just  as  I  got  through  with  my 
breakfast,  and  the  sun  come  in  so  nice  and  slant 
ing  acrost  my  kitchen  floor  that  I  stepped  to  the 
open  door  to  get  the  smell  of  it.  All  outside 
lay  sweet  and  surprised,  like  the  first  notes  of 
something  being  played.  Before  I  knew  it,  I 
went  out  and  down  the  path,  between  the  things 
that  hadn't  come  up  yet  —  ain't  it  like  all  out 
doors  was  friendly  and  elbow  near,  the  way  it 
keeps  pulling  at  you  to  be  out  there  with  it  ? 
Before  I  knew  it  I  was  out  my  back  gate  and 
acrost  the  vacant  lot  and  off  down  the  old  trail 
road,  my  hands  wrapped  up  in  my  apron  and 
me  being  just  selfish  glad  I  was  alive. 

With  outdoors  all  around  you,  just  waiting  to 
be  paid  attention  to ;  with  friends  set  here  and 
there  in  the  world,  near  like  planets,  high  and 
single  like  stars,  or  grouped  like  constellations ; 
and  with  a  spirit  inside  us  —  the  same  spirit  — 
trying  to  say  something  —  and  trying  to  say 
the  same  thing  —  ain't  life  rich  ?  Ain't  it  rich  ? 


THE  FACE  OF   FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE     101 

Sometimes  I  try  to  think  what  could  make  it 
richer.  And  I  can  never  get  any  farther  than 
the  growing  of  those  three  foundation  things  : 
Outdoors  and  friends  and  the  spirit.  For  life 
will  be  richer  when  the  outdoors  gets  done  — 
the  floods  tamed,  the  roads  built,  the  forests 
tended,  the  deserts  risen  from  the  dead  and  the 
cities  and  towns  and  villages  tamed  and  built 
and  trained  and  tended  and  risen  from  the  dead 
of  dirt  and  ugliness  to  be  real  bodies  for  the  souls 
stirring  and  beating  in  them  now  —  and  trying 
to  speak.  And  life  will  be  richer  when  friends 
come  true  —  not  just  this  planet,  and  that  star, 
and  these  constellations,  —  but  when  the  whole 
great  company  of  friends,  in  homes,  in  churches, 
in  mines,  in  prisons,  in  factories,  in  brothels, 
shall  be  known  to  us,  and  set  free  to  be  real 
bodies  for  the  souls  stirring  and  beating  in  them 
now  —  and  trying  to  speak.  And  not  till  then 
will  that  spirit  in  outdoors  and  in  cities  and  in 
us  —  the  same  spirit,  trying  to  say  the  same 
thing  —  not  till  then  can  that  spirit  ever  get  it 
said. 

"Oh,"  I  thought,  "on  a  morning  like  this,  if 
somebody  could  only  think  of  the  right  word, 
maybe  the  whole  thing  might  come  true." 

And  almost  I  knew  what  that  word  was  —  like 
you  do. 


102  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

I  remember  I  wasn't  thinking  of  anything 
but  wonder,  when  away  acrost  the  Pump 
pasture  I  see  a  thing.  It  wasn't  a  tent  or  it 
wasn't  a  wagon  or  it  wasn't  a  farm  machine 
of  any  kind.  I  looked  at  it  a  minute  and  I 
couldn't  formulate  nothing.  And  as  you  could 
drive  through  the  Pump  pasture  fence  'most 
anywheres,  I  went  through  and  started  right 
over  to  whatever  was  there. 

'Most  anybody  can  tell ,  you  how  it  looked, 
for  by  nine  o'clock  the  whole  village  was  out 
to  it.  But  I'll  never  be  able  to  tell  much  about 
the  feel  of  the  minute  when  I  see  the  two  great 
silk  wings  and  the  airy  wire,  and  knew  I  was 
coming  close  up  to  a  flying-machine,  setting 
there  on  the  ground,  like  a  god  that  had  stopped 
on  a  knoll  to  tie  his  shoe. 

A  man  was  down  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
doing  something  to  an  underneath  part  of  it, 
but  I  guess  at  first  I  hardly  see  him.  The  ma 
chine  was  the  thing,  the  machine  that  could  go  up 
in  the  air,  the  machine  that  had  done  it  at  last ! 

"Good  morning,"  says  the  man,  all  of  a 
sudden.  aAm  I  trespassing?" 

He  stood  there  with  his  cap  in  his  hand, 
clean-muscled,  youngish,  easy-acting,  and  as 
casual  as  if  he'd  just  come  out  of  a  doorway 
instead  of  out  of  the  sky. 


THE  FACE  OF   FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE     103 

I  says,  "Ain't  it  wonderful  ?  Ain't  it  won 
derful  ?"  Which  is  just  exactly  what  I'd  said 
about  Mis'  Toplady's  crocheted  bedspread. 
It's  terrible  to  try  to  talk  with  nothing  but 
the  dictionary  back  of  you. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  "it  is.  Then  I'm  not  tres 
passing  ?" 

"No  more'n  the  eagles  of  the  Lord,"  I  says 
to  him.  "Are  you  broke  down  ?" 

"There's  a  little  something  wrong  with  the 
balance,"  he  says.  "I'm  going  to  lie  over  here 
a  day  or  so,  providing  the  eagle  of  the  Lord 
figure  holds  for  the  town.  What  place  will 
this  be  ?"  he  asks. 

"Friendship  Village,"  I  says. 

"Friendship  Village,"  he  says  it  after  me, 
and  looked  ofl  at  it.  And  I  stood  for  a  minute 
looking  at  it,  too. 

Beyond  the  trees  north  of  the  pasture  it  lay, 
with  little  lifts  of  smoke  curling  up  from  folks's 
cook-stoves.  There  was  a  look  to  it  of  break 
fasts  a-getting  and  stores  being  opened  and  the 
day  rousting  up.  Right  while  we  looked,  the 
big,,  bass  seven  o'clock  whistle  blew  over  to  the 
round-house,  and  the  little  peepy  one  chimed 
in  up  at  the  brick-yard,  and  I  could  hear  the 
town  clock  in  the  engine-house  striking,  kind 
of  old-fashioned  and  sweet-toned.  And  all 


104  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

around  the  country  lay  quiet-seeming,  down 
to  the  flats  and  out  acrost  the  tracks  and  clear 
to  the  city  limits  that  we  couldn't  see,  where 
the  life  of  the  little  fields  was  going  on.  And 
in  that  nice,  cozy,  seven-o'clock  minute  I  see 
it  all  as  I  do  sometimes,  almost  like  a  person 
sitting  there,  with  its  face  turned  towards  me, 
expectant,  waiting  to  see  what  I'm  going  to 
do  for  it. 

"Jove,"  says  the  man,  "look  at  it !  Look 
at  it.  It  looks  like  the  family  sitting  down  to 
breakfast." 

I  glanced  up  at  him  quick.  Not  many 
sees  villages  that  way.  The  most  sees  them 
like  cats  asleep  in  the  sun.  But  I  always 
like  to  think  of  'em  like  a  room  —  a  little  room 
in  the  house,  full  of  its  family,  real  busy  get 
ting  the  room-work  done  up  in  time. 

"From  here,"  I  says,  "it  does  most  look  like 
a  real  town." 

"More  folks  live  in  the  little  towns  of  the 
United  States  than  in  the  big  cities  of  it,"  he 
said,  absent. 

"They  do?"  I  says. 

"By  count,"  he  answers,  nodding,  and  stood 
a  minute  looking  over  at  the  roofs  and  the  water 
tower.  "You  feel  that,"  he  says,  "when  you 
see  them  the  way  I  do  From  up  high.  I  keep 


THE  FACE  OF   FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE     105 

seeing  them  skimming  under  me,  little  places 
whose  names  don't  show.  And  it  always  seems 
that  way  —  like  the  family  at  breakfast  —  or 
working  —  or  sitting  around  the  arc  lamp. 
You're  splendid  —  you  little  towns.  What  you 
do  is  what  the  world  does." 

A  kind  of  shiver  took  me  in  the  back  of  my 
head. 

"It .looks  as  if  such  nice  things  were  going 
on  over  there  —  in  Friendship  Village,"  he  says, 
his  voice  sort  of  wrapping  about  the  name. 

"Election  day  is  going  on,"  I  says,  "day 
after  to-morrow.  But  it  won't  be  so  very 


nice.'3 


"No,"  he  says,  "they  aren't  very  nice  — 
yet." 

That  made  me  think  of  something.  "Have 
you  been  in  many  cities  and  dropped  down 
into  many  towns  ?"  I  ask'  him. 

"Several,"  says  he,  —  sort  of  rueful. 

"On  election  day  ?"  I  says. 

"Sometimes,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  then,"  I  says,  "maybe  you  can  tell 
me  what  they  do  on  election  day  in  cities. 
Don't  they  ever  have  exercises  ?" 

"Exercises  ?"  he  says  over,  blank. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  says,  "though  I  dunno  just 
how  I  mean  that.  But  don't  they  ever  open 


106  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

up  the  city  hall  and  have  singing  and  speeches 
—  not  political  speeches,  but  ones  about  folks 
and  about  living  ?  I  should  think  they  must 
do  that  somewheres  —  'most  anybody  would 
of  thought  of  that.  And  have  the  young  folks 
there,  and  have  them  that's  going  to  vote  sort 
of  —  well,  commenced,  like  college.  Don't  they 
do  that,  places  ?" 

When  he  shook  his  head  I  was  worried  for 
fear  he'd  think  I  was  crazy. 

"No,"  he  says,  "I  never  heard  of  their  doing 
that  anywhere  —  yet." 

But  when  he  says  that  "yet"  I  wasn't  worried 
any  more.  And  I  burst  right  out  and  told 
him  about  our  trouble  in  Friendship  Village, 
and  about  the  "best"  people  never  voting, 
and  the  city  limits  folks  not  coming  in  for  it, 
and  about  our  two  candidates,  and  about 
Eppleby,  that  hadn't  a  ghost  of  a  show. 

"Us  ladies,"  I  wound  up,  "wanted  to  have 
a  kind  of  an  all-together  campaign  —  with 
mass  meetings  of  folks  to  kind  of  talk  over  the 
town,  mutual.  And  we  wanted  to  get  up  some 
exercises  to  make  election  day  a  real  true  day, 
and  to  roust  folks  up  to  being  not  so  very  far 
from  the  way  things  was  meant  to  be.  But 
the  men  folks  said  it  wasn't  never  done  so. 
They  give  us  that  reason." 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    107 

The  bird-man  looked  at  me,  and  nodded. 
"I  fancy  it  isn't,"  he  says,  "  — yet." 

But  he  didn't  say  anything  else,  and  I 
thought  he  thought  I  was  woman-foolish ;  so 
to  cover  up,  I  says,  hasty : 

"Could  you  leave  me  hear  you  talk  a  little 
about  it  ?  I  mean  about  flying.  It's  old  to 
you,  but  it's  after-I-die  to  me.  I  never  shall 
do  it.  So  far  I've  never  seen  it.  But  oh,  I 
like  to  hear  about  it.  It  seems  the  freest- 
feeling  thing  we've  ever  done." 

"To  do,"  he  says,  '"it's  coldish.  And  it's 
largely  acrobatics  —  yet.  But  to  see  —  yes, 
I  fancy  it  is  about  the  freest-feeling  thing  we've 
ever  done.  A  thing,"  he  says  my  words  over, 
smiling  a  little,  "that  makes  you  think  you're 
a  step  nearer  to  the  way  things  were  meant  to 
be."  Then  he  stood  still  a  minute,  looking 
down  at  me  meditative.  "Has  there  ever 
been  a  flying-machine  in  Friendship  Village  ?" 
he  ask'  me. 

"Never,"  I  says  —  and  my  heart  stood  still 
at  what  it  thought  of. 

"And  day  after  to-morrow  is  your  election 
day  ?"  he  says  over. 

"Yes,"  I  says  —  and  my  head  begun  to  beat 
like  my  heart  wasn't. 

"The  machine  will  be  in   shape  by  then," 


io8  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

he  said.  "Would  —  would  you  care  to  have 
me  make  a  flight  on  election-day  morning  ? 
Free,  you  know.  It  wouldn't  be  much ;  but 
it  might,  "  he  says,  with  his  little  smile,  "  it  might 
pull  in  a  few  votes  from  the  edge  of  town." 

"Oh,  my  land  —  oh,  my  land  a-living!" 
I  says  —  and  couldn't  say  another  word. 

But  I  knew  he  knew  what  I  meant.  It 
was  a  dream  like  I  hadn't  ever  dreamed  of 
dreaming.  It  seems  it  was  his  own  machine 
—  he  was  on  his  own  hook,  a-pleasuring. 
And  it  seemed  as  if  he  just  had  come  like  an 
eagle  of  the  Lord,  same  as  I  said. 

We  settled  where  I  was  to  let  him  know, 
and  then  I  headed  for  Mis'  Toplady's,  walk 
ing  some  on  the  ground  and  some  in  the  air. 
For  I  sensed  the  thing,  whole  and  clear,  so  be 
we  could  get  enough  to  pitch  in.  And  Mis' 
Toplady  left  her  breakfast  dishes  setting,  like 
I  had  mine,  and  away  we  went.  And  I  see  Mis' 
Toplady's  ideas  was  occupying  her  whole  face. 

We  went  straight  to  the  mothers  —  Mis' 
Uppers  and  Mis'  Merriman  and  Mis'  Stur- 
gis  and  the  others  that  had  sons  that  was 
going  to  vote,  this  year  or  in  ten  years  or  in 
twenty  years.  I  dunno  whether  it  was  the 
mother  in  them,  or  just  the  straight  human 
being  in  them  —  but  they  see,  the  most  of 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    109 

'em,  what  it  was  we  meant.  Of  course  some 
of  them  just  see  the  lark,  and  some  of  them  just 
didn't  want  to  refuse  us,  and  some  of  them  just 
joined  in  because  they're  the  joining-in  kind. 
But  oh,  some  of  them  see  what  we  see  —  and 
it  was  something  shining  and  real  and  far  off, 
and  it  made  us  willing  to  go  ahead  like  wild, 
and  I  dunno  but  like  mad.  Ain't  it  wonderful 
how  when  a  plan  is  born  into  the  world,  it  grows 
on  air  ?  On  air  —  and  a  little  pitching  in  to 
work  ? 

All  but  Mis'  Silas  Sykes.  When  we  went 
to  see  her,  Mis'  Sykes  was  like  that  much  ada 
mant. 

"Pshaw,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  "you  ladies  don't 
understand  politics.  In  politics  you  can't  fly 
up  this  way  and  imagine  out  vain  things.  You 
got  to  do  'em  like  they've  been  done.  As  I 
understand  it,  they's  two  parties.  One  is  for 
the  good  of  the  country  and  one  ain't.  And 
anything  you  dicker  up  outside  them  two  gets 
the  public  all  upset  and  steps  on  the  Constitu 
tion.  And  Silas  says  you've  got  to  handle  the 
Constitution  like  so  many  eggs,  or  else  where 
does  the  United  States  come  in  ?" 

'"It   don't   seem  to   me  that   all   makes   real 

• 

good  sense,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  troubled. 
'"No,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  serene,  "the  people 


no  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

as  a  whole  never  do  see  sense.     It's  always  a 
few  that  has  to  do  the  seeing." 

"I  know,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  "I  know. 
But  what  I  think  is  this  :  Which  few?" 

"Why,  them  that  best  supports  the  party 
measures,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  superior. 

But  Mis'  Toplady,  she  shook  her  head. 

"It  don't  follow  out,"  she  says,  firm.  "Legs 
ain't  the  only  things  they  is  to  a  chair." 

Nor,  as  us  ladies  saw  it,  the  polls  ain't  all 
there  is  to  election  day.  And  we  done  what 
we  could,  steadfast  and  quick  and  together,  up 
to  the  very  night  before  the  day  that  was  the 
day. 

On  election-day  morning,  I  woke  up  before 
daylight  and  tried  to  tell  if  the  sun  was  going 
to  shine.  The  sky  wasn't  up  there  yet  —  noth 
ing  was  but  the  airful  of  dark.  But  acrost  the 
street  I  see  a  light  in  a  kitchen  —  it  was  at  the 
station  agent's  that  had  come  home  to  the  hot 
breakfast  his  wife  had  been  up  getting  for  him. 
One  of  'em  come  out  to  the  well  for  a  bucket  of 
water,  and  the  pulleys  squeaked,  and  somebody's 
dog  woke  up  and  barked.  Back  on  the  trail 
road  somebody's  baby  was  crying.  Down  acrost 
the  draw  the  way-freight  whistled  and  come 
rumbling  in.  And  there  was  Friendship  Vil 
lage,  laying  still,  being  a  town  in  the  dark  with 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    in 

nobody  looking,  just  like  it  was  being  one  all 
day  long,  with  people  looking  on  but  never 
sensing  what  they  saw. 

It  seemed,  though,  as  if  they  must  get  it 
through  their  heads  that  day  that  the  town 
was  being  a  town  right  before  their  face  and 
eyes  —  having  a  kind  of  a  performance  to  do, 
like  digestion,  or  thinking,  or  working ;  and 
having  something  anxious  and  fluttered  inside 
of  it,  waiting  to  know  what  was  going  to  become 
of  it.  I  could  almost  sense  this  at  six  o'clock, 
when  Mis'  Toplady  and  I  hurried  down  to  the 
market  square.  Yes,  sir,  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  it  was.  We  had  engineered  it  that  the 
flight  of  the  flying-machine  should  be  at  seven 
o'clock,  so's  everybody  could  have  a  chance 
to  see  it  on  their  way  to  work,  and  so's  they 
should  be  at  the  market-square  doings  before 
they  went  to  the  polls. 

The  sun  was  shining  like  mad,  and  the  place 
looked  all  expectant  and  with  that  ready-to- 
nod  look  that  anything  got  ready  beforehand 
will  always  put  on.  Only  this  seemed  sort  of  a 
special  nod.  We'd  had  a  few  board  seats  put 
up,  and  a  platform  that  'most  everybody  had 
the  idea  the  airship  was  going  up  from.  Th,e 
machine  itself  was  over  in  the  corner  of  the 
square  near  the  wood-yard  under  a  wagon-shed 


ii2  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

they'd  made  over  for  it.  And  to  a  stand  near 
the  platform  the  Friendship  Married  Ladies' 
Cemetery  Improvement  Sodality  had  adver 
tised  to  serve  hot  coffee  and  hot  griddle-cakes 
and  sausages.  And  we  begun  on  the  coffee 
and  the  sausages  long  enough  ahead  so's  by 
the  time  folks  was  in  the  high  midst  of  arriving, 
the  place  smelled  like  a  kitchen  with  savory 
things  a-doing  on  the  cook-stove. 

And  I  tell  you,  folks  done  some  arriving.  Us 
ladies  had  seen  to  it  to  have  the  flight  adver 
tised  big  them  two  nights.  The  paper  done  it 
willing  enough,  being  the  bird-man  was  so 
generous  and  all.  Then  everybody's  little  boy 
had  been  posted  off  as  far  as  the  city  limits 
with  hand-bills  and  posters,  advertising  the 
flight,  and  the  breakfast  on  election  day. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  that  outside  the  place 
we'd  roped  off,  and  in  wagons  in  the  streets, 
was  'most  everybody  in  Friendship  Village  that 
I  ever  knew  or  saw.  The  folks  from  the  little 
city-limit  farms,  the  folks  that  ordinarily  didn't 
have  time  to  vote  nor  to  take  a  holiday,  even 
folks  from  the  country  and  from  other  towns, 
"best"  people  and  all  —  they  was  all  there  to 
see  the  sky-wagon. 

The  bird-man  had  to  dicker  away  quite  a 
little  at  his  machine.  A  man  had  run  out  from 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE     113 

the  city  to  help  him,  and  out  there  with  them 
was  Lem  Toplady  and  Jimmy  Sturgis  and  Hugh 
Merriman,  and  two-three  more  of  those  boys, 
that  had  got  acquainted  with  the  bird-man. 
And  while  they  was  getting  ready,  the  band 
was  playing  gay  over  in  the  bandstand,  and 
we  was  serving  breakfasts  as  fast  as  we  could 
hand  them  out.  Mis'  Sturgis  was  doing  the 
coffee,  I  was  sizzling  sausages  that  the  smell 
floated  up  and  down  Daphne  Street  delicious, 
and  Mis'  Toplady  was  frying  the  pancakes 
because  she's  had  such  a  big  family  to  fry  for 
she's  lightning  in  the  right  wrist. 

Everybody  was  talking  and  laughing  and 
waiting  their  turn,  and  acting  as  if  they  liked 
it.  Them  that  was  up  around  the  breakfast 
stand  didn't  seem  to  be  saying  much  about 
politics.  Us  ladies  mentioned  to  one  another 
that  Threat  nor  'Lish  didn't  seem  to  be  any 
where  around.  But  we  was  mostly  all  think 
ing  just  about  the  flying-machine,  and  how 
nice  it  was  to  be  having  it,  and  about  the  social- 
ness  of  it  all  —  like  the  family  was  having 
breakfast.  .  .  . 

Just  as  the  big,  bass  seven-o'clock  whistle 
trailed  out  from  the  round-house  —  the  brick* 
yard  one  didn't  blow  because  the  men  was  all 
at  the  market  square  —  the  thing  happened 


ii4  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

that  we'd  arranged  for.  Down  Daphne  Street, 
hurrying  some  because  they  was  late,  with  irregu 
lar  marching  and  a  good  deal  of  laughing,  come 
the  public-school  teachers  with  the  school  chil 
dren.  We'd  give  out  that  they'd  be  easier 
managed  so,  and  not  so  much  under  foot ;  but 
what  we  really  wanted  was  that  they  should 
come  in  just  like  this,  together,  and  set  together, 
because  we  wanted  something  of  them  after  a 
while. 

They  sat  down  on  the  place  we'd  left  for  'em, 
on  the  seats  and  the  grass  in  front  of  every 
body,  and  them  that  could  sing  we  put  on  the 
platform,  lots  of  rows  deep,  so's  they  all  covered 
it.  They  was  big  boys  and  little,  and  little 
girls  and  big,  good-dressed  and  poor-dressed ; 
with  honest  fathers,  and  with  them  that  didn't 
know  honest  when  they  see  it  nor  miss  it  when 
they  didn't  —  and  all  of  them  was  the  Friend 
ship  Village  that's  going  to  be  some  time,  when 
the  market  square  is  emptied  of  us  others,  for 
good  and  all. 

"Where's  Threat  and  'Lish  ?"  I  says  to 
Eppleby,  that  was  helping  keep  the  children 
in  order. 

"Dustin'  the  mayor's  office  out  ready,  I 
s'pose,"  he  says,  wrinkling  his  eyes  at  the 
corners. 


THE  FACE  OF   FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE     115 

"Mebbe  they've  abducted  each  other,"  Mis' 
Toplady  suggests,  soothing. 

Mis'  Sykes  looked  over  from  filling  the  syrup 
pitchers  —  she'd  boiled  the  brown  sugar  down 
for  that,  and  it  added  its  thick,  golden  smell  unto 
the  general  inviting  mixture. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  says  serious,  "that  you'd 
ought  to  speak  disrespectful  of  anybody  that's 
going  to  be  your  mayor.  Public  officials," 
said  she,  "had  ought  to  be  paid  respect  to, 
or  else  the  law  won't  be  carried  out. " 

"Shucks,"  says  Mis'  Toplady,  short.  She'd 
made  upwards  of  ninety  griddle  cakes  by  then, 
and  she  was  getting  kind  of  flustered  and 
crispy. 

"Shucks?"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  haughty  and 
questioning,  and  all  but  in  two  syllables. 

"If  that's  all  the  law  is,"  says  Mis'  Toplady, 
beating  away  at  her  pancake  batter,  "give  me 
anar-kicky,  or  whatever  it  is  they  call  it." 

Mis'  Sykes  never  said  a  word.  She  just  went 
on  making  syrup,  reproachful.  Mis'  Sykes  is 
one  of  them  that  acts  like  life  was  made  up  of 
the  pattern  of  things,  and  like  speaking  of  warf 
and  woof  wasn't  delicate.  And  she  never  so 
much  as  lets  on  they  is  such  a  thing  as  a  knot. 
Yes,  some  folks  is  like  that.  But  not  me  — 
not  me. 


ii6  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

It  was  'most  half-past  seven  o'clock  when  the 
bird-man  was  ready.  Like  a  big  bug  the 
machine  looked,  with  spidery,  bent  legs  and 
wings  spread  ready  and  no  head  necessary. 
And  when  he  finally  run  it  off  down  the  square 
and  headed  towards  the  Pump  pasture,  my  heart 
sunk  some.  My  land,  I  thought,  it  can't  be  a 
real  true  one.  I  guess  there  are  them,  but  this 
right  here  on  the  market  square  can't  be  one. 

Since  the  world  begun,  there  ain't  a  more 
wonderful  minute  for  folks  than  the  minute 
when  they  first  see  some  kind  of  flying-machine 
leave  the  ground  —  leave  the  ground!  It's  like 
seeing  the  future  come  true  right  in  your  face. 
The  thing  done  it  so  gentle  and  so  simple  that 
you'd  of  thought  it  was  invented  when  legs 
was.  It  lifted  itself  up  in  the  air,  like  by  its 
own  boot-straps,  and  it  went  up  and  up  and  up, 
just  like  going  up  was  its  own  alphabet.  It 
went  and  it  kept  going,  its  motor  buzzing  and 
purring,  softer  and  softer.  And  pretty  soon 
the  blue  that  it  was  going  up  to  meet  seemed 
to  come  down  and  meet  it,  and  the  two  sort  of 
joined,  and  the  big,  wide  gold  morning  flowed 
all  over  them,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew  the 
bird-man's  machine  and  him  in  it  looked  like 
just  what  I  had  said  :  an  eagle  of  the  Lord,  soar 
ing  to  meet  the  sun  like  a  friend  of  its. 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    117 

I  couldn't  bear  it  any  more.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if,  if  I  should  look  any  longer,  I  should 
all  of  a  sudden  have  ten  senses  instead  of  five, 
and  they'd  explode  me.  I  looked  away  and 
down.  And  when  I  done  that,  all  at  once  there 
I  was  looking  right  into  the  face  of  all  the  folks 
in  Friendship  Village.  Heads  back,  a  sea  of 
little  white  dabs  that  was  faces,  and  hearts 
beating  underneath  where  you  couldn't  see 
'em  —  all  of  us  was  standing  there  breathless, 
feeling  just  alike.  Feeling  just  alike  and  being 
just  alike,  underneath  that  wonderful  thing 
happening  in  the  sky.  .  .  .  And  all  of  a  sudden, 
while  I  looked  at  them,  the  faces  all  blurred 
and  wiggled,  and  it  seemed  like  I  was  looking 
into  only  one  face,  the  face  of  Friendship  Vil 
lage,  like  a  person.  .  .  . 

I  see  it,  like  I'd  never  seen  it  before.  While 
we  watched,  we  was  one  person.  When  we  was 
all  thinking  about  the  same  thing,  there  was 
only  one  of  us.  And  the  more  wonderful  things 
that  come  into  the  world  and  took  hold  of  every 
body,  the  more  one  we  was  going  to  get  and  to 
stay.  And  this,  all  vague  inside  of  us,  I  knew 
now  was  what  us  ladies  had  meant  by  what 
we'd  planned.  Didn't  it  seem  —  didn't  it  seem' 
as  if  them  that  watched  had  ought  to  stay  one 
—  that  decent,  wondering,  almost  reverent  one, 


ii8  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

long  enough  to  vote  decent  and  wondering  and 
reverent  for  their  town  ? 

Right  while  my  heart  was  beating  with 
it  all,  the  little  buzzing  and  purring  of  the 
motor,  away  up  there  in  the  blue,  stopped 
short  off.  My  eyes  flew  up  again,  and  I  see 
the  bird-man  coming  down.  He  was  up  so 
high  that  he  was  a  dot,  and  he  grew  and  grew 
like  a  thing  being  born  in  the  sky  —  right 
down  towards  us  and  on  us  he  come  like  a  shot, 
a  shot-down  shot.  Nobody  breathed.  I 
couldn't  see.  But  I  looked  and  looked  and 
dreaded.  .  .  .  And  not  eight  hundred  feet  from 
the  ground  he  begun  coming  down  easy,  and 
he  come  the  rest  of  the  way  as  gentle  as  a  bird, 
and  lit  where  he  rose  from. 

Oh,  how  they  cheered  him  —  like  one  man  ! 
Like  one  man.  Lem  Toplady  and  Jimmy  Stur- 
gis,  Jr.,  and  the  boys  that  was  out  in  the  field 
went  and  shook  his  hand  —  like  the  servants, 
I  thought  in  the  middle  of  my  head,  of  some 
great  new  'order.  And  I  was  thinking  so  deep 
and  so  breathless  that  I  'most  forgot  the  band 
till  it  crashed  right  out  behind  us,  playing  loud 
and  fine  that  Marseilles  French  piece,  like  we'd 
told  them.  And  when  it  done  that,  up  hopped 
the  children  that  it  give  the  cue  to,  and  there 
in  the  midst  of  us  they  struck  in,  singing  loud 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    119 

and  clear  the  words  they  sung  in  school  to  that 
old  tune,  with  its  wonderful  tang  to  it,  that 
slips  to  your  heels  with  its  music  and  makes 
you  want  to  go  start  something  and  to  start  it 

then : 

"Come,  Children  of  To-morrow,  come! 
New  glory  dawns  upon  the  world. 
The  ancient  banners  must  be  furled. 
The  earth  becomes  our  common  home  — 
The  earth  becomes  our  common  home. 
From  plain  and  field  and  town  there  sound 
The  stirring  rumors  of  the  day. 
Old  wrongs  and  burdens  must  make  way 
For  men  to  tread  the  common  ground. 

"Look  up  !     The  children  win  to  their  immortal  place. 
March  on,  march  on — within  the  ranks  of  all  the  human  race. 

"  Come,  love  of  people,  for  the  part 
Invest  our  willing  arms  with  might. 
Mother  of  Liberty,  shed  light 
As  on  the  land,  so  in  the  heart  — 
As  on  the  land,  so  in  the  heart. 
Divided,  we  have  long  withstood 
The  love  that  is  our  common  speech. 
The  comrade  cry  of  each  to  each 
Is  calling  us  to  humanhood." 

Hum  it  to  the  tune  of  that  Marseilles  piece, 
and  you'll  know  how  we  was  all  feeling.  By 
the  time  they  got  down  to  their  last  two  lines, 
my  throat  was  about  the  size  of  my  head. 


120  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

And  then  the  bird-man  got  back  in  his  little 
sulky  seat,  and  he  waved  his  hand  to  us,  and 
he  left  his  machine  run  down  the  field,  and  lift, 
and  head  straight  for  open  country.  His  way 
lay,  it  seemed,  right  acrost  Friendship  Village ; 
and  he'd  no  more'n  started  before  the  band 
started  too,  playing  the  tune  that  by  now  was 
in  everybody's  veins.  And  behind  them  the 
children  fell  in,  singing  again,  and  with  the 
people  streaming  behind  them  they  all  marched 
off  down  Daphne  Street  —  where  the  little 
shops  lay  waiting  to  be  opened,  and  the  polls 
was  waiting  to  be  voted  in,  and  Friendship 
Village  was  waiting  for  us  to  know  it  was  a 
town,  like  it  meant. 

All  us  ladies  went  to  scraping  up  plates 
like  fury.  Excep'  Mis'  Toplady.  She  stood 
for  a  minute  wiping  her  eyes  on  a  paper  napkin. 
And  she  says  : 

"Oh,  ladies.  I  ain't  never  felt  so  much  like  a 
human  being  since  I  was  born  one." 

And  me,  I  stood  there  looking  across  the  Mar 
ket  Square  to  the  school-house.  There  it 
was,  with  its  doors  open  and  the  new  voting 
machine  setting  in  the  hall,  —  they'd  took  the 
polls  out  of  the  barber  shop  and  the  livery 
stable  sole  because  the  voting  machine  got 
in  the  way  of  trade.  They'd  put  it  in  the  school- 


THE  FACE  OF   FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    121 

house.  And  it  was  to  the  school-house  that  the 
men  were  going  now. 

"Oh,"  I  says  to  Mis'  Toplady,  "would  you 
think  anybody  could  go  in  a  child's  school- 
house,  and  vote  for  anybody  that  — " 

"No,  no,"  she  says,  "you  wouldn't  think  so, 
would  you  ?" 

But  she  didn't  look  at  me.  She  was  looking 
over  to  the  school-house  steps.  Lem  Toplady 
stood  there,  and  Jimmy  Sturgis,  Jr.,  and  Hugh 
Merriman  and  Mis'  Uppers's  boy  —  watching 
the  last  of  the  bird-man  and  the  air-wagon  fly 
ing  down  the  sky.  When  it  had  gone,  the  four 
boys  turned  and  went  together  up  the  steps 
of  the  school-house.  And  Mis'  Toplady  and 
Mis'  Sturgis  and  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman  and 
Mis'  Uppers  stood  and  watched  them  —  going 
in  to  vote  now,  to  the  place  where  the  four 
mothers  had  seen  them  go  ever  since  they  were 
little  bits  of  boys,  with  faces  and  clothes  to  be 
kept  clean,  and  lessons  to  learn,  and  lunch 
baskets  to  fill.  Then  the  mothers  could  either 
do  these  things  for  them  —  or  anyway  help 
along.  Now  they  stood  there  doing  nothing, 
watching,  while  their  boys  went  in  to  do  their 
first  vote  —  into  the  school-house  where  they'd 
learned  their  A  B  C's. 

"Ain't  that  —  ain't  it  just  —  ?"  I  says  low 
to  Mis'  Toplady ;  and  kind  of  stopped. 


122  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Ain't  it  ?"  she  says,  fervent  and  low  too. 
"Oh,  ain't  it?" 

"The  time'll  come,"  I  says,  "when  you 
mothers,  and  me  too,  will  go  in  there  with  them. 
And  when  we'll  go  straight  from  a  great  public 
meeting —  like  this  —  to  a  great  public  business 
like  that.  And  when  it  comes — " 

We  all  looked  at  one  another  —  all  but  Mis' 
Silas  Sykes,  that  was  busy  with  the  syrup 
pitchers.  But  the  thing  was  over  the  rest  of 
us  —  the  lift  and  the  courage  and  the  belief 
of  that  hour  we'd  all  had  together.  And  I 
says  out : 

"Oh,  ladies  !  I  believe  in  us.     I  believe  in  us." 

So  I  tell  you,  I  wasn't  surprised  at  what  that 
day  done.  I  dunno  for  sure  what  done  it. 
Mebbe  it  was  just  the  common  sense  in  folks 
that  I  cannot  get  over  believing  in.  Mebbe 
it  was  the  cores  of  their  minds  that  I  know 
is  sound,  no  matter  how  many  soft  spots 
disfigures  their  brains.  Mebbe  it  was  the  big 
power  and  the  big  glory  that's  near  us,  waiting 
to  be  drawn-on-and-used  as  fast  as  we  learn 
how  to  do  it  —  no,  I  dunno  for  sure.  But  they 
put  Eppleby  Holcomb  in  for  mayor.  Eppleby 
got  in,  to  mayor  the  town  !  And  some  said  it 
was  because  the  boys  that  was  to  cast  their 
first  vote  had  got  out,  last  minute,  and  done 


THE  FACE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE    123 

some  hustling,  unbeknownst.  And  some  thought 
it  was  because  Threat  and  'Lish  couldn't  wait, 
but  done  a  little  private  celebrating  together 
in  Threat's  hotel  bar  the  night  before  election. 
And  others  said  election  always  is  some  ticklish 
—  they  give  that  reason. 

But  me  —  I  went  and  stood  out  on  my  side 
porch  that  election-day  night,  a-looking  down 
Daphne  Street  to  the  village.  There  it  lay,  with 
its  arc  light  shining  blue  by  the  Market  Square, 
and  it  was  being  a  village,  with  nobody  looking 
and  all  its  folks  in  its  houses,  just  like  the  family 
around  that  one  evening  lamp.  And  their  hearts 
was  beating  along  about  the  same  things ;  just 
like  they  had  beat  that  day  for  the  sky-wagon, 
and  for  the  Marseilles  French  piece.  Only  they 
didn't  know  it  —  yet. 

And  I  says  right  out  loud  to  the  village  —  just 
like  Friendship  Village  was  a  person,  with  its 
face  turned  toward  me,  listening : 

"Why,  you  ain't  half  of  us  —  nor  you  ain't 
some  of  us.  You're  all  of  us  !  And  you  must 
of  known  it  all  the  time." 


THE  FLOOD 

It's  "brother"  now  and  it's  "brother"  then, 

And  it's  "brother"  another  day, 

And  it's  "brother"  whenever  a  loud  doom  sounds 

With  a  terrible  toll  to  pay.  .  .  . 

But  what  of  the  silent  dooms  they  bear 

In  an  inoffensive  way? 

It's  "brother"  here  and  it's  "brother"  there, 

And  it's  "brother"  once  in  a  while, 

And  it's  "brother"  whenever  an  hour  hangs  black 

On  the  face  of  the  common  dial.  .  .  . 

But  what  of  the  days  that  stretch  between 

For  the  march  of  the  rank  and  file? 

I  DON'T  know  how  well  you  know  villages, 
but  I  hope  you  know  anyhow  one,  because  if 
you  don't  they's  things  to  life  that  you  don't 
know  yet.  Nice  things. 

I  was  thinking  of  that  the  Monday  morning 
that  all  Friendship  Village  remembers  still.  I 
was  walking  down  Daphne  Street  pretty  early, 
seeing  everybody's  breakfast  fire  smoke  coming 
out  of  the  kitchen  chimney  and  hearing  every 
body's  little  boy  splitting  wood  and  whistling 
out  in  the  chip  pile,  and  smelling  everybody's 

124 


THE  FLOOD  125 

fried  mush  and  warmed-up  potatoes  and  griddle 
cakes  come  floating  out  sort  of  homely  and  old 
fashioned  and  comfortable,  from  the  kitchen  cook- 
stoves. 

"Look  at  the  Family,"  I  says  to  myself, 
"sitting  down  to  breakfast,  all  up  and  down  the 
street." 

And  when  the  engine-house  clock  struck 
seven,  and  the  whistle  over  to  the  brick-yard 
blew  little  and  peepy  and  like  it  wasn't  sure 
it  was  seven  but  it  thought  so,  and  the  big 
whistle  up  to  the  round-house  blew  strong  and 
hoarse  and  like  it  knew  it  all  and  could  tell 
you  more  about  the  time  of  day  then  you'd 
ever  guessed  if  it  wanted  to,  and  the  sun  come 
shining  down  like  the  pouring  out  of  some  new 
thing  that  we'd  never  had  before  —  I  couldn't 
help  drawing  a  long  breath,  just  because  Now 
was  Now. 

Down  the  walk  a  little  ways  I  met  Bitty 
Marshall.  I  wondered  a  little  at  seeing  him 
on  the  street  way  up  our  end  o'  town.  He'd 
lately  opened  a  little  grocery  store  down  on  the 
Flats,  for  the  Folks  that  lived  down  there.  Him 
and  his  wife  lived  overhead,  with  a  lace  curtain 
to  one  of  the  front  windows  —  though  they  was 
two  front  windows  to  the  room.  "I've  always 
hankered  for  a  pair  o'  lace  curtains,"  she  said 


126  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

to  me  when  I  went  up  to  see  her  one  day,  "but 
when  I'd  get  the  money  together  to  buy  'em, 
it  seems  like  somethin'  has  always  come  and  et  it 
up  —  medicine  or  school  books  or  the  children's 
shoes.  So  when  we  moved  in  here,  I  says  I  was 
goin'  to  have  one  lace  curtain  to  one  window  if 
I  board  the  other  up  !"  And  she  had  one  to 
one  window,  and  a  green  paper  shade  to  the 
other. 

"Well,  Bitty,"  I  says,  "who's  keeping  store 
to-day  ?  Your  wife  ?" 

But  he  didn't  smile  gay,  like  he  usually  does. 
He  looked  just  regular. 

"Neither  of  us'll  be  doing  it  very  long,"  he 
said.  "I've  got  to  close  down." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  paying  you  nice  ?"  I  says. 

"And  so  it  was,"  says  Bitty,  "till  Silas 
Sykes  took  a  hand.  He  didn't  have  a  mind  to 
see  me  run  no  store  down  there  and  take  away 
his  trade  from  the  Flats.  He  begun  under- 
sellin'  me  —  he's  been  runnin'  everything  off  at 
cost  till  I  can't  hold  out  no  longer." 

"So  that's  what  Silas  Sykes  has  been  slashin' 
down  everything  for,  from  prunes  upwards," 
I  says.  "I  might  of  known.  I  might  of  known." 

"My  interest  is  comin'  due,"  says  Bitty, 
movin'  on;  "I've  come  up  this  mornin'  to  see 
about  going  back  to  work  in  the  brick-yard." 


THE  FLOOD  127 

"Good  land,"  I  says  sorrowful.  "Good  land. 
And  Silas  in  the  Council  —  and  on  the  School 
Board  —  and  an  elder  thrown  in." 

Bitty  grinned  a  little  then. 

"It  ain't  new,"  he  says,  over  his  shoulder. 
And  he  went  on  up  the  street,  holding  his  hands 
heavy,  and  kind  of  letting  his  feet  fall  instead 
of  setting  them  down,  like  men  walk  that  don't 
care,  any  more. 

I  understood  what  he  meant  when  he  said 
it  wasn't  new.  There  was  Joe  Betts  that  worked 
three  years  getting  his  strawberry  bed  going, 
and  when  he  begun  selling  from  the  wagon  in 
stead  of  taking  to  Silas  Sykes  at  the  Post-Office 
store,  Silas  got  the  Council  that  he's  in  to  put 
up  licenses,  clear  over  Joe's  head.  And  Ben 
Dole,  he'd  got  a  little  machine  and  begun  making 
cement  blocks  for  folks's  barns,  and  Timothy 
Toplady,  that's  interested  in  the  cement  works 
over  to  Red  Barns,  got  Zachariah  Roper,  that's 
to  the  head  of  the  Red  Barns  plant,  to  come  over 
and  buy  Ben  Dole's  house  and  come  up  on  his 
rent  —  two  different  times  he  done  that.  It 
wasn't  new.  But  it  all  kind  of  bafHed  me.  It 
seemed  so  legal  that  I  couldn't  put  down  my 
finger  on  what  was  the  matter.  Of  course  when* 
a  thing's  legal,  and  you're  anyways  patriotic, 
you  are  some  put  to  it  to  find  a  real  good  term 


128  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

to  blame  it  with.  I  walked  along,  thinking 
about  it,  and  feeling  all  baffled  up  as  to  what  to 
do.  But  I  hadn't  gone  ten  steps  when  I  thought 
of  one  thing  I  could  do,  to  clear  up  my  own 
i-dees  if  for  nothing  else.  I  turned  around  and 
called  out  after  Bitty. 

"Oh,  Bitty,"  I  says,  "would  you  mind  me 
letting  Silas  know  I  know  ?" 

He  threw  out  his  hands  a  little,  and  let  'em 
kind  of  set  down  side  of  him. 

"Why  sure  not,"  he  said,  "but  if  you're 
thinkin'  of  saying  anything  to  him  —  best  spare 
the  breath." 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  I  thought,  and  I  went 
on  down  Daphne  Street  with  a  Determination 
sitting  up  in  the  air  just  ahead  of  me,  beginning 
to  crook  its  finger  at  me  to  come  along. 

In  a  minute  I  come  past  Mis'  Fire  Chief 
Merriman's  house.  The  Chief  has  been  dead 
several  years,  but  we  always  keep  calling  her 
by  his  title,  same  as  we  call  the  vacant  lot  by 
the  depot  the  Ellsworth  House,  though  the 
Ellsworth  House  has  been  burned  six  years  and 
it's  real  kind  of  confusing  to  strangers  that  we 
try  to  direct.  I  remember  one  traveling  man 
that  headed  right  out  towards  the  marsh  and 
missed  his  train  because  some  of  us  had  told 
him  to  keep  straight  on  till  he  turned  the  corner 


THE  FLOOD  129 

by  the  Ellsworth  House,  and  he  kept  hunting 
for  it  and  trusting  in  it  till  he  struck  the  swamp. 
But  you  know  how  it  is  —  you  get  to  saying  one 
thing,  and  you  keep  on  uttering  it  after  the  thing 
is  dead  and  gone  and  another  has  come  in  its 
place,  and  when  somebody  takes  you  up  on  it, 
like  as  not  you'll  tell  him  he  ain't  patriotic.  It 
was  the  same  with  the  Fire  Chief.  Dead  though 
he  was,  we  always  give  her  his  official  title, 
because  we'd  got  headed  calling  her  that  and 
hated  to  stop.  She  was  out  in  her  garden  that 
morning,  and  I  stood  still  when  I  caught  sight 
of  her  tulips.  They  looked  like  the  earth  had 
broke  open  and  let  out  a  leak  of  what's  inside  it, 
never  intending  to  show  so  much  at  once. 

"Mis'  Merriman,"  I  says,  "what  tulips  ! 
Or,"  says  I,  flattering,  "is  it  a  bon-fire,  with 
lumps  in  the  flame  ?" 

Mis'  Merriman  was  bending  over,  setting  out 
her  peony  bulbs,  with  her  back  to  me.  When 
I  first  spoke,  she  looked  over  her  shoulder,  and 
then  she  went  right  on  setting  them  out,  hard  as 
she  could  dig.  "Glad  you  like  something  that  be 
longs  to  me,"  says  she,  her  words  kind  of  punched 
out  in  places  by  the  way  she  dug. 

Then  I  remembered.  Land,  I'd  forgot  all 
about  it.  But  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  Friend 
ship  Married  Ladies'  Cemetery  Improvement 


130  NEIGHBORHOOD;  STORIES 

Sodality  —  we  don't  work  for  just  Cemetery 
any  more,  but  we  got  started  calling  it  that 
twenty  years  back,  and  on  we  go  under  that  name, 
serene  as  a  straight  line  —  at  that  last  meeting 
I'd  appointed  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady  a  com 
mittee  of  one  to  go  to  the  engine-house  to  get 
them  to  leave  us  sell  garbage  pails  at  cost  in 
the  front  part ;  and  it  seems  Mis'  Merriman  had 
give  out  that  she'd  ought  to  be  the  one  to  do  it, 
along  of  her  husband  having  been  Fire  Chief 
for  eleven  years  and  more,  and  she  might  have 
influence  with  'em.  I'd  of  known  that  too,  if 
I'd  thought  of  it  —  but  you  know  how  it  is 
when  they  pitch  on  to  you  to  appoint  a  com 
mittee  from  the  chair  ?  All  your  i-dees  and 
your  tact  and  your  memory  and  your  sense  takes 
hold  of  hands  and  exits  out  of  you,  and  you're 
left  up  there  on  the  platform,  unoccupied  by 
any  of  'em  —  and  ten  to  one  you'll  appoint 
the  woman  with  the  thing  in  her  hat  that  first 
attracts  your  attention.  Mebbe  it  ain't  that 
way  with  some,  but  I've  noticed  how  it  is  with 
me,  and  that  day  I'd  appointed  Mis'  Toplady 
to  that  committee  sole  because  she  passed  her 
cough-drops  just  at  that  second  and  my  eye 
was  drawed  acrost  to  them  and  to  her.  I'd 
never  meant  to  slight  Mis'  Fire  Chief  and  I  felt 
nothing  on  this  earth  but  kindness  to  her,  and 


THE  FLOOD  131 

yet  when  I  heard  her  speak  so,  all  crispy  and 
chilly  and  uppish,  about  being  glad  I  liked 
something  about  her,  all  to  once  my  veins  sort 
of  run  starch,  and  my  bones  lay  along  in  me  like 
they  was  meant  for  extra  pokers,  and  I  flashed 
out  back  at  her  : 

"Oh,  yes,  Mis'  Merriman  —  your  tulips  is 
all  right — "  bringing  my  full  heft  down  on  the 
word  "tulips." 

And  then  I  went  on  up  the  street  with  some 
thing  —  something  —  something  inside  me,  or 
outside  me,  or  mebbe  just  with  me,  looking  at 
me,  simple  and  grave  and  direct  and  patient 
and  —  wounded  again.  And  I  felt  kind  of  sick, 
along  up  and  down  my  chest.  And  the  back 
of  my  head  begun  to  hurt.  And  I  breathed  fast 
and  without  no  pleasure  in  taking  air.  And  I 
says  to  myself  and  the  world  and  the  Something 
Else: 

"Oh,  God,  creator  of  heaven  and  earth  that's 
still  creatin'  'em  as  fast  aswe'll  getourmeannesses 
out  of  the  way  and  let  you  go  on  —  what  made 
me  do  that  ?" 

And  nothing  told  me  what  —  not  then. 

Just  then  I  see  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was- 
Mame  Bliss  come  out  on  their  side  porch  and 
hang  out  the  canary.  I  waved  my  hand  acrost 
to  her,  and  she  whips  off  her  big  apron  and 


132  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

shakes  it  at  me,  and  I  see  she  was  feeling  the  sun 
shine  clear  through  her,  just  like  I'd  been. 

"  Come  on  down  with  me  while  I  do  an  errant," 
I  calls  to  her. 

"My  table  ain't  cleared  off  yet,"  says  she, 
decisive. 

"Mine  either,"  I  says  back.  "But  ain't  you 
just  as  fond  of  the  sun  in  heaven  as  you  are  of 
your  own  breakfast  dishes  ?  Come  on." 

So  she  took  off  her  apron  and  run  in  and  put  on 
a  breastpin  and  come  down  the  walk,  rolling 
down  her  sleeves,  and  dabbing  at  her  hair  to 
make  sure,  and  we  went  down  the  street  to 
gether.  And  the  first  thing  I  done  was  to  burst 
out  with  my  thoughts  all  over  her,  and  I  told 
her  about  Silas  and  about  Bitty  Marshall,  and 
about  how  his  little  store  on  the  Flats  was  going 
to  shut  down. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "if  that  ain't  Silas  all  over. 
If  it  ain't  Silas.  I  could  understand  his  dried 
fruit  sales,  'long  toward  Spring  so  —  it's  easy 
to  be  reasonable  about  dried  peaches  when  its 
most  strawberry  time.  I  could  even  under 
stand  his  sales  on  canned  stuff  he's  had  in  the 
store  till  the  labels  is  all  fly-specked.  But  when 
he  begun  to  cut  on  new  potatoes  and  bananas 
and  Bermuda  onions  and  them  necessities,  I  says 
to  myself  that  he  was  goin'  to  get  it  back  from 


THE  FLOOD  133 

somewheres.     So   it's   out  o'   Bitty   Marshall's 
pocket,  is  it  ?" 

"And  it's  so  legal,  Mis'  Holcomb,"  I  says, 
"it's  so  bitterly  legal.  Silas  ain't  corporationed 
himself  in  with  nobody.  It  ain't  as  if  the  courts 
could  get  after  him  and  some  more  and  make 
them  be  fair  to  their  little  competitors,  same  as 
courts  is  fallin'  over  themselves  to  get  the  chance 
to  do.  This  is  nothin'  but  Silas  —  our  leadin' 


citizen." 


Mis'  Holcomb,  she  made  her  lips  both  thin 
and  tight. 

"Let's  us  go  see  Silas,"  says  she,  and  I  see  my 
Determination  was  crooking  its  finger  to  her, 
same  as  to  me. 

Silas  had  gone  down  to  the  store,  we  found, 
but  Mis'  Sykes  was  just  coming  out  their  gate 
with  a  plate  of  hot  Johnny  cake  to  take  up  to 
Miss  Merriman. 

"Oh,  Mis'  Sykes,"  I  says,  "is  your  night 
bloomin'  cereus  goin'  to  be  out  to-night,  do  you 
know  ?  I  heard  it  was."  The  whole  town 
always  watches  for  Mis'  Sykes's  night-blooming 
cereus  to  bloom,  and  the  night  it  comes  out  we 
always  drop  in  and  set  till  quite  late. 

Mis'  Sykes  never  looked  at  Mis'  Holcomb. 

"Good  morning,  Calliope,"  says  she.  "Yes, 
I  think  it  will,  Calliope.  Won't  you  come  in 
to-night,  Calliope,  and  see  it  ?"  says  she. 


134  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

I  says  I  would  ;   and  when  we  went  on, 

"What  struck  her,"  I  says,  puzzled,  "to 
spread  my  name  on  to  what  she  said  like  that, 
I  wonder  ?  I  feel  like  I'd  been  planted  in  that 
sentence  of  hers  in  three  hills." 

Then  I  see  Mis'  Holcomb's  eyes  was  full  of 
tears. 

"Mis'  Sykes  was  trying  to  slight  me,"  she 
says.  "  She  done  that  so's  to  kind  of  try  to  seem 
to  leave  me  out." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I  must  say,  she  sort  of  suc 
ceeded.  But  what  for  ?" 

"I  give  her  potato  bread  receipt  away,"  she 
says  miserable,  "and  it  seems  she  didn't  expect 
it  of  me." 

"Is  that  it?"  I  says.  "Well,  of  course  we 
both  know  Mis'  Sykes  ain't  the  one  to  ever 
forgive  a  thing  like  that.  I  s'pose  she'll  socially 
ostrich-egg  you  —  or  whatever  it  is  they  say  ?" 

"  I  s'pose  she  will,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb  forlorn. 
"You  know  how  Mis'  Sykes  is.  From  now  on,  if 
I  say  the  sky  is  blue,  Mis'  Sykes'll  say  no,  pink." 

They  was  often  them  feuds  in  Friendship 
Village  —  like  this  one,  and  like  Mis'  Merriman's 
and  my  new  one.  It  hadn't  ought  to  be  so  in 
a  village  family,  but  then  sometimes  it  is.  I 
s'pose  in  cities  it's  different  —  they  always  say 
it  makes  folks  broader  to  live  in  cities,  and  they 


THE  FLOOD  135 

prob'ly  get  to  know  better.  But  it's  like  that 
with  us. 

Well,  of  course  the  back-bone  had  dropped 
out  of  the  morning  for  Mis'  Holcomb,  and  she 
didn't  take  no  more  interest  in  going  down  street 
than  she  would  in  darning  —  I  mention  darning 
because  I  defy  anybody  to  pick  out  anything  un- 
interestinger.  Up  to  the  time  I  got  to  the  Post- 
Office  Hall  store,  I  was  trying  to  persuade  her 
to  come  in  with  me  to  see  Silas. 

"I'd  best  not  go  in,"  she  says.  "You  know 
how  one  person's  quarrel  is  catching  in  a  family. 
And  a  potato  bread  receipt  is  as  good  as  any 
thing  else  to  be  loyal  about." 

But  I  made  her  go  in,  even  if  she  shouldn't 
say  a  word,  but  just  act  constituent-like. 

Silas  was  alone  in  the  store,  sticking  dates 
on  to  a  green  paste-board  to  make  the  word 
"Pure"  to  go  over  his  confectionery  counter. 
He  had  his  coat  off,  and  his  hair  had  been 
brushed  with  a  wet  brush  that  left  the  print  of 
the  bristles,  and  his  very  back  looked  BUSY. 

"Hello,  folks,"  says  he,  "how's  life  ?" 

"Selfish  as  ever,"  I  says.     "Ain't  trade  ?" 

"Well,"  says  Silas,  "it's  every  man  for  him 
self  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost  in  most 
everything  now,  ain't  it  ?  As  the  prophet  said, 
It  beats  all." 


136  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"It  does  that,"  I  says.  "It  beats  everybody 
in  the  end.  Funny  they  don't  find  it  out. 
That's  why,"  I  adds  serene,  "we  been  so  moved 
by  your  generous  cost  sales  of  stuff,  Silas.  What 
you  been  doin'  that  for  anyway  ?"  I  put  it  to 
him. 

"For  to  bait  trade,"  says  he. 

"For  what  else?"  I  ask' him. 

"Why,"  he  says,  beginning  to  be  irritable, 
which  some  folks  uses  instead  of  wit,  "to  push 
the  store,  of  course.  I  ain't  been  doin'  it  for 
the  fun  of  it." 

"Ain't  you  now  ?"  I  says.  "I  thought  it  was 
kind  of  a  game  with  you." 

"What  do  you  mean  —  game?"  says  Silas, 
scowling. 

"Cat  and  mouse,"  I  says  brief.  "You  the 
cat  and  Bitty  Marshall  the  mouse." 

Silas  stood  up  straight  and  just  towered  at  me. 

"What  you  been  hearing  now?"  he  says, 
demandful. 

"Well,"  I  answered  him,  "nothing  that 
surprised  me  very  much.  Only  that  you've 
been  underselling  Bitty  so's  to  drive  him  out 
and  keep  the  trade  of  the  Flats  yourself." 

Silas  never  squinched. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "what  if  I  have?  Ain't  I 
got  a  right  to  protect  my  own  business  ?" 


THE  FLOOD  137 

I  looked  him  square  in  the  eye. 

"No,"  I  says,  "not  that  way/' 

Silas  put  back  his  head  and  laughed,  tolerant. 

"I  guess,"  he  says,  "you  ain't  been  following 
very  close  the  business  affairs  of  this  country." 

'"Following  them  was  how  I  come  to  under 
stand  about  you,"  I  says  simple.  And  I  might 
have  added,  "And  knowing  about  you,  I  can  see 
how  it  is  with  them." 

For  all  of  a  sudden,  I  see  how  he  thought  of 
these  things,  and  for  a  minute  it  et  up  my 
breath.  It  had  always  seemed  to  me  that  men 
that  done  things  like  this  to  other  folks's  little 
business  was  wicked  men  in  general.  That 
they  kind  of  got  behind  being  legal  and  grinned 
out  at  folks  and  said:  "Do  your  worst.  You 
can't  stop  us."  But  now  I  see,  like  a  blast  of 
light,  that  it  was  no  such  thing ;  but  that  most 
of  them  was  probably  good  husbands  and  fathers, 
like  Silas ;  industrious,  frugal,  members  of  the 
Common  Councils  and  of  the  school  boards, 
elders  in  the  church,  charitable,  kindly,  and  be 
lieving  simple  as  the  day  that  what  they  was 
doing  was  for  the  good  of  business.  Business. 

"Well,"  Silas  was  saying,  "what  you  going 
to  do  about  it  ?" 

I  looked  back  at  Mame  Holcomb  standing, 
nervous,  over  by  the  cranberry  barrel : 


138  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"I've  got  this  to  do  about  it,"  I  says,  "and  I 
know  Mame  Holcomb  has,  and  between  us  we 
can  get  every  woman  in  Friendship  Village  to 
do  the  same  --unless  it  is  your  wife  that  can't 
help  herself  like  lots  of  women  can't :  Unless 
you  get  your  foot  off  Bitty's  neck,  every  last 
one  of  us  will  quit  buying  of  you  and  go  down 
to  the  Flats  and  trade  with  Bitty.  How  about 
it,  Mame  ?" 

She  spoke  up,  like  them  little  women  do  some 
times  that  you  ain't  ever  looked  upon  as  par 
ticularly  special  when  it  comes  to  taking  a  stand. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  says.  "They  ain't  a  woman 
in  the  village  that  would  stand  that  kind  of  deal 
ing,  if  they  only  knew.  And  we,"  she  adds 
tranquil,  "could  see  to  that." 

Silas  give  the  date-word  he  was  making  a 
throw  over  on  to  the  sugar  barrel,  and  made  a 
wild  gesture  with  a  handful  of  toothpicks, 

"Women,"  he  says,  "dum  women.  If  it 
wasn't  for  you  women  swarming  over  the  world 
like  different  kinds  of  —  of  —  of  —  noxious  in 
sects,  it  would  be  a  regular  paradise." 

"Sure  it  would,"  I  says  logical,  "because  there 
wouldn't  be  a  man  in  it  to  mess  it  up." 

Silas  had  just  opened  his  mouth  to  reply,  when 
all  of  a  sudden,  like  a  letter  in  your  box,  some 
body  come  and  stood  in  the  doorway  —  a  man, 


THE   FLOOD  139 

and  called  out  something,  short  and  sharp  and 
ending  in  "Come  on  —  all  of  you,"  and  dis 
appeared  out  again,  and  we  heard  him  running 
down  the  street.  Then  we  saw  two-three  more 
go  running  by  the  door,  and  we  heard  some 
shouting.  And  Silas,  that  must  have  guessed  at 
what  they  said,  he  started  off  behind  them, 
dragging  on  his  sear-sucker  coat  and  holding  his 
soft  felt  hat  in  his  mouth,  it  not  seeming  to  occur 
to  him  that  he  could  set  it  on  his  head  till  he  was 
ready  to  use  it. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  says  to  Mis'  Hoi- 
comb.  "They  must  be  getting  excited  because 
nothing  ever  happens  here.  They  ain't  nothing 
else  to  get  excited  over  that  I  can  think  of." 

Then  we  see  more  men  come  running,  and 
their  boots  clumped  down  on  the  loose  board 
walk  with  that  special  clump  and  thud  that 
boots  gets  to  'em  when  they're  running  with 
bad  news,  or  hurrying  for  help. 

"What  is  it?"  I  says,  getting  to  the  door. 
And  I  see  men  begin  to  come  out  of  the  stores 
and  get  in  knots  and  groups  that  you  can  tell 
mean  trouble  of  some  kind,  just  as  plain  as  you 
can  tell  that  some  portraits  of  total  strangers  is 
the  portraits  of  somebody  that's  dead.  They1 
look  dead.  And  them  groups  looked  trouble. 
And  then  I  see  Timothy  Toplady  come  tearing 


140  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

down  the  road  in  his  spring  wagon,  with  his 
horse's  check  reins  all  dragging  and  him  lash 
ing  out  at  'em  as  he  stood  up  in  the  box.  Then 
I  run  right  out  in  the  road  and  yelled  at  him. 

"Timothy,"  I  says,  "what's  the  matter? 
What's  happened  ?" 

He  drew  up  his  horses,  and  threw  out  his  hand, 
beckoning  angular. 

"Come  on!"  he  says,  "get  in  here  —  get  in 
quick.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  and 
see  Mis'  Merriman  that  had  come  out  to  her 
gate  with  Mis'  Sykes,  and  they  was  both  out  on 
the  street,  looking,  and  he  beckoned,  wild,  to 
them  ;  and  they  come  running. 

"Quick  !"  says  Timothy.  "The  dam's  broke. 
They've  just  telephoned  everybody.  The  Flats'll 
be  flooded.  Come  on  and  help  them  women 
load  their  things.  .  .  ." 

I  don't  remember  any  of  us  saying  a  thing. 
We  just  clomb  in  over  the  back-board  of 
Timothy's  wagon,  him  reaching  down  to  help  us, 
courteous,  and  we  set  down  on  the  bottom  of  the 
wagon — Mis'  Holcomband  Mis'  Sykes,  them  two 
enemies,  and  Mis'  Merriman  and  me  —  and  we 
headed  for  the  Flats. 

I  remember,  on  the  ride  down  there,  seeing 
the  street  get  thick  with  folks  —  in  a  minute 


THE  FLOOD  141 

the  street  was  black  with  everybody,  all  hurrying 
toward  what  was  the  matter,  and  all  veering 
out  and  swarming  into  the  road  —  somehow, 
folks  always  flows  over  into  the  road  when  any 
thing  happens.  And  men  and  women  kept 
coming  out  of  houses,  and  calling  to  know  what 
was  the  matter,  and  everybody  shouted  it  back 
at  them  so's  they  couldn't  understand,  but 
they  come  out  and  joined  in  and  run  anyway. 
And  over  and  over,  as  he  drove,  Timothy  kept 
shouting  to  us  how  he  had  just  been  hitching  up 
when  the  news  come,  and  how  his  wagon  was 
a  new  one  and  had  ought  to  be  able  to  cart  off 
five  or  six  loads  at  a  trip. 

"It  can't  hurt  Friendship  Village  proper,"  I 
remember  his  saying  over  and  over  too,  "that's 
built  high  and  dry.  But  the  whole  Flats'll  be 
flooded  out  of  any  resemblance  to  what  they've 
been  before." 

"Friendship  Village  proper,"  I  says  over  to 
myself,  when  we  got  to  the  top  of  Elephant  Hill 
that  let  us  look  over  the  Pump  pasture  and  away 
across  the  Flats,  laying  idle  and  not  really 
counted  in  the  town  till  it  come  to  the  tax  list. 
There  was  dozens  of  little  houses — the  Marshalls 
and  the  Betts's  and  the  Rickers's  and  the 
Hennings  and  the  Doles  and  the  Haskitts,  and  I 
donno  who  all.  All  our  washings  was  done 


142  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

down  there  —  or  at  least  the  washings  was  of 
them  that  didn't  do  them  themselves.  The 
garden  truck  of  them  that  didn't  have  gardens, 
the  home  grown  vegetables  for  Silas's  store,  the 
hired  girls'  homes  of  them  that  had  hired  girls, 
the  rag  man,  the  scissors  grinder,  Lowry  that 
canes  chairs  and  was  always  trying  to  sell  us 
tomato  plants  —  you  know  how  that  part  of  a 
town  is  populationed  ?  And  then  there  was 
a  few  that  worked  in  Silas's  factory,  and  an  out 
laying  milkman  or  two  —  and  so  on.  "Friend 
ship  Village  proper,"  I  says  over  and  looked 
down  and  wondered  why  the  Flats  was  improper 
enough  to  be  classed  in  —  laying  down  there  in 
the  morning  sun,  with  nice,  neat  little  door- 
yards  and  nice,  neat  little  wreaths  of  smoke 
coming  up  out  of  their  chimneys  —  and  the  whole 
Mad  river  loose  and  just  going  to  swirl  down  on 
it  and  lap  it  up,  exactly  as  hungry  for  it  as  if  it 
had  been  Friendship  Village  "proper." 

They  was  running  out  of  their  little  houses, 
up  towards  us,  coming  with  whatever  they  had, 
with  children,  with  baskets  between  'em,  with 
little  animals,  with  bed-quilts  tied  and  filled 
with  stuff.  Some  few  we  see  was  busy  loading 
their  things  up  on  to  the  second  floor,  but  most 
of  'em  didn't  have  any  second  floors,  so  they  was 
either  running  up  the  hill  or  getting  a  few  things 


THE  FLOOD  143 

on  to  the  roof.  It  wasn't  a  big  river  —  we  none 
of  us  or  of  them  was  afraid  of  any  loss  of  life 
or  of  houses  being  tipped  over  or  like  that. 
But  we  knew  there' d  be  two-three  feet  of  water 
over  their  ground  floors  by  noon. 

"Land,  land,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  that's  our 
best  housekeeper,  "and  I  'spose  it's  so  late  lots 
of  'em  had  their  Spring  cleaning  done." 

"I  was  thinkin'  of  that,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb, 
her  enemy. 

"But  then  it  being  so  late  most  of  'em  has 
got  their  winter  vegetables  et  out  of  their 
sullars,"  says  Mis'  Merriman,  trying  to  hunt 
out  the  bright  side. 

"That's  true  as  fate,  Mis'  Merriman,"  I 
remember  I  says,  agreeing  with  her  fervent. 

And  us  two  pairs  of  feuds  talked  about  it, 
together,  till  we  got  down  into  the  Flats  and 
begun  helping  'em  load. 

We  filled  up  the  wagon  with  what  they  had 
ready,  tied  up  and  boxed  up  and  in  baskets  or 
thrown  in  loose,  and  Timothy  started  back  with 
the  first  load,  Mis'  Haskitt  calling  after  him 
pitiful  to  be  careful  not  to  stomp  on  her  best 
black  dress  that  she'd  started  off  with  in  her 
arms,  and  then  trusted  to  the  wagon  and  gone 
back  to  get  some  more.  Timothy  was  going 
to  take  'em  up  to  the  top  of  Elephant  Hill  and 


144  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

dump  'em  there  by  appointment,  and  come  back 
for  another  load,  everybody  sorting  their  own 
out  of  the  pile  later,  as  best  they  could.  While 
he  was  gone  we  done  things  up  for  folks  like 
wild  and  I  donno  but  like  mad,  and  had  a  regular 
mountain  of  'em  out  on  the  walk  when  he  come 
driving  back ;  but  when  we  got  that  all  loaded 
on,  out  come  Mis'  Ben  Dole,  running  with  a  whole 
clothes  bars  full  of  new-ironed  clothes  and  begged 
Timothy  to  set  'em  right  up  on  top  of  the  load, 
just  as  they  was,  and  representing  as  they  did 
Two  Dollars'  worth  of  washing  and  ironing  for 
her,  besides  the  value  of  the  clothes  that  mustn't 
be  lost.  And  Timothy  took  'em  on  for  her, 
and  drove  off  balancing  'em  with  one  hand,  and 
all  the  clothes  blowing  gentle  in  the  breeze. 

I  looked  over  to  Mis'  Holcomb,  all  frantic  as 
she  was,  and  it  was  so  she  looked  at  me. 

"That  was  Ben  Dole's  wife  that  Timothy  done 
that  for,"  I  says,  to  be  sure  we  meant  the  same 
thing.  "Just  as  if  he  hadn't  never  harmed  her 
husband's  cement  plant." 

"I  know,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb.  "Don't  that 
beat  the  very  day  to  a  froth  ?"  and  she  went  on 
emptying  Mis'  Dole's  bureau  drawers  into  a 
bed-spread. 

By  the  time  the  fourth  load  or  so  had  gone  on, 
and  the  other  wagons  that  had  come  was  working 


THE  FLOOD  145 

the  same  way,  the  water  was  seeping  along  the 
Lower  Road,  down  past  the  wood-yard.  More 
than  one  was  saying  we'd  ought  to  begin  to 
make  tracks  for  high  ground,  because  likely 
when  it  come,  it'd  come  with  a  rush.  And 
some  of  us  had  stepped  out  on  the  street  and  was 
asking  Silas,  that  you  kind  of  turn  to  in  emer 
gency,  because  he's  the  only  one  that  don't 
turn  to  anybody  else,  whether  we  hadn't  better 
go,  when  down  the  street  we  see  a  man  come 
tearing  like  mad. 

"My  land,"  I  says,  "it's  Bitty  Marshall. 
He  wasn't  home.  And  where's  his  wife  ?  I 
ain't  laid  eyes  on  her." 

None  of  us  had  seen  her  that  morning.  And 
us  that  stood  together  broke  into  a  run,  and  it 
was  Silas  and  Mis'  Merriman  and  me  that  run 
together,  and  rushed  together  up  the  stairs  of 
Bitty's  little  grocery,  to  where  he  lived,  and  into 
the  back  room.  And  there  set  Bessie  Marshall 
in  the  back  room,  putting  her  baby  to  sleep  as 
tranquil  as  the  blue  sky  and  not  knowing  a  word 
of  what  was  going  on,  and  by  the  window  was 
Bitty's  old  mother,  shelling  pop-corn. 

I  never  see  anybody  work  like  Silas  worked 
them  next  few  minutes.  If  he'd  been  a  horse 
and  a  giant  made  one  he  couldn't  have  got  more 
quick,  necessary  things  out  of  the  way.  And 


i46  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

we  done  what  we  could,  and  it  wasn't  any  time 
at  all  till  we  was  going  down  the  stairs  carrying 
what  few  things  they'd  most  need  for  the  next 
few  days.  When  we  stepped  out  in  the  street, 
the  water  was  an  inch  or  more  all  over  where 
we  stood,  and  when  we'd  got  six  steps  from  the 
house  and  Bitty  had  gone  ahead  shouting  to 
the  wagon,  Bessie  Marshall  looked  up  at  Silas 
real  pitiful. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Sykes,"  she  says,  "there's  a  coop 
of  little  chickens  and  their  mother  by  the  back 
door.  Couldn't  we  take  'em  ?" 

"  Sure,"  says  Silas,  and  when  the  wagon  come  he 
made  it  wait  for  us,  and  when  the  Marshalls  and 
the  baby  and  Mis'  Merriman  was  seated  in  it, 
and  me,  he  come  running  with  the  coopful  of  little 
yellow  scraps,  and  we  was  the  last  wagon  to  leave 
the  Flats  and  to  get  up  to  Elephant  Hill  again. 

"But,  oh,"  says  Mis'  Merriman  grieving, 
"it  seems  like  us  women  could  do  such  a  little 
bit  of  the  rescuing.  Oh,  when  it's  a  flood  or  a 
fire  or  a  runaway,  I  do  most  question  Providence 
as  to  why  we  wasn't  all  born  men." 

You  know  how  it  is,  when  a  great  big  thing 
comes  catastrophing  down  on  you,  it  just  eats 
up  the  edges  of  the  thing  you  think  with,  and 
leaves  you  with  nothing  but  the  wish-bone  of 
your  brain  operating,  kind  of  flabby.  But  when 


THE  FLOOD  147 

we  got  up  on  top  of  Elephant  Hill,  where  was 
everybody  —  folks  from  the  Flats,  and  a  good 
deal  of  what  they  owned  put  into  a  pile,  and  the 
folks  from  Friendship  "proper"  come  to  watch 
—  there  was  Mis'  Timothy  Toplady  already 
planning  what  to  do,  short  off.  Mis'  Toplady 
can  always  connect  up  what's  in  her  head  with 
what's  outside  of  it  and  —  what's  rarer  still  — 
with  what's  lacking  outside  of  it. 

"These  folks  has  got  to  be  fed,"  she  says, 
"for  the  days  of  the  high  water.  Bed  and 
breakfast  of  course  we  can  manage  among  us, 
but  the  other  two  meals  is  going  to  be  some  of 
a  trick.  So  be  Silas  would  leave  us  have  Post 
Office  hall  free,  we  could  order  the  stuff  sent  in 
right  there,  and  all  turn  in  and  cook  it." 

"Oh,  my,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  soft,  to  me, 
"he'll  never  do  that.  He'll  say  it'll  set  a  prece 
dent,  and  what  he  does  for  one  he'll  have  to 
do  for  all.  It's  a  real  handy  dodge." 

"Well,"  says  Mis'  Merriman,  "leave  him  set 
a  precedent  for  himself  for  floods.  We  won't 
expect  it  off  him  other." 

"I  ain't  never  yet  seen  him,"  I  says,  "carrying 
a  chicken  coop  without  he  meant  to  sell  chickens. 
Mebbe's  he's  got  a  change  of  heart.  Let's  ask 
him,"  I  says,  and  I  adds  low  to  Mis'  Toplady 
that  I'd  asked  Silas  for  so  many  things  that  he 


148  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

wouldn't  give  or  do  that  I  could  almost  do  it 
automatic,  and  I'd  just  as  lives  ask  him  again 
as  not. 

It  wasn't  but  a  minute  till  him  and  Timothy 
come  by,  each  estimating  how  fast  the  river 
would  raise.  And  I  spoke  up  right  then. 

"  Silas,"  I  says,  "hadfyou  thought  how  we're 
going  to  feed  these  folks  till  the  water  goes 
down?" 

I  fully  expected  him  to  snarl  out  something 
like  he  usually  does,  about  us  women  being 
frantic  to  assume  responsibility.  Instead  of 
that  he  looked  down  at  us  thoughtful : 

"Well,"  says  he,  "that's  just  what  I've  been 
studying  on  some.  And  I  was  thinking  that 
if  you  women  would  cook  the  stuff,  us  men 
would  chip  in  and  buy  the  material.  And 
wouldn't  it  be  some  easier  to  cook  it  all  in  one 
place  ?  I  could  let  you  have  the  Post  Office 
hall,  if  you  say  so." 

"Why,  Silas,"  I  says,  "Silas  ..."  And 
I  couldn't  say  another  word.  And  it  was  the 
rest  of  'em  let  him  know  that  we'd  do  it.  And 
when  they'd  gone  on, 

"Do  you  think  Timothy  sensed  that  ?"  says 
Mis'  Toplady,  meditative. 

"I  donno,"  says  I,  "but  I  can  see  to  it 
that  he  does." 


THE  FLOOD  149 

"I  was  only  thinking,"  says  she,  "that  we've 
got  seven  dozen  fresh  eggs  in  the  house,  and  we're 
getting  six  quarts  of  milk  a  day  now.  ..." 

"I'll  recall  'em,"  says  I,  "to  his  mind." 

But  when  I'd  run  ahead  and  caught  up  with 
'em,  and  mentioned  eggs  and  milk  suggestive, 
in  them  quantities, 

"Sure,"  says  Timothy,  "I  just  been  telling 
Silas  he  could  count  on  'em." 

And  that  was  a  wonderful  thing,  for  we  one 
and  all  knew  Timothy  Toplady  as  one  of  them 
decanter  men  that  the  glass  stopper  can't 
hardly  be  got  out.  But  it  wasn't  the  most 
wonderful  —  for  Silas  spoke  up  fervent  —  fer- 
venter  than  I'd  ever  known  him  to  speak : 

"They  can  have  anything  we've  got,  Cal 
liope,"  he  says,  "in  our  stores  or  our  homes. 
Make  'em  know  that,"  says  he. 

It  didn't  take  me  one  secunt  to  pull  Silas 
aside. 

"Silas,"  I  says,  "oh,  Silas  —  is  what  you 
just  said  true  ?  Because  if  it's  true  —  won't 
you  let  it  last  after  the  water  goes  down  ? 
Won't  you  let  Bitty  keep  his  store  ?" 

He  looked  down  at  me,  frowning  a  little. 
One  of  the  little  yellow  chicks  in  the  coop  got 
out  between  the  bars  just  then,  and  was  just 
falling  on  its  nose  when  he  caught  it  —  I  s'pose 


150  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

bill  is  more  biologic,  but  it  don't  sound  so  dan 
gerous  —  and  he  was  tucking  it  back  in,  gentle, 
with  its  mother,  while  he  answered  me, 
testy : 

"Lord,  Calliope,"  he  says,  "a  flood's  a  flood. 
Can't  you  keep  things  separate  ?" 

'"No,  sir,"  I  says,  "I  can't.  Nor  I  don't 
believe  the  Lord  can  either." 

Ain't  it  like  things  was  arranged  to  happen 
in  patterns,  same  as  crystals  ?  For  it  was  just 
in  them  next  two  minutes  that  two  things  hap 
pened  :  The  first  was  that  a  boy  came  riding 
over  on  his  wheel  from  the  telegraph  office  and 
give  a  telegram  to  Timothy.  And  Timothy 
opened  it  and  waved  it  over  his  head,  and  come 
with  it  over  to  us  : 

"First  contribution  for  the  flood-suffers  !" 
says  he.  "They  telephoned  the  news  over  to 
Red  Barns  and  listen  at  this  :  'Put  me  down  for 
Twenty-five  dollars  towards  the  flood  folks 
food.  Zachariah  Roper." 

I  looked  over  to  Timothy  straight. 

"Zachariah  Roper,"  I  says,  "that  owns  the 
cement  plant  that  some  of  the  Flat  folks 
got  in  the  way  of  ?" 

Timothy  jerked  his  shoulder  distasteful. 
"The  idear,"  says  he,  "of  bringin'  up  business 
at  a  time  like  this." 


THE  FLOOD  151 

With  that  I  looked  over  at  Silas,  and  I  see 
him  with  the  scarcest  thing  in  the  world  for 
him  —  a  little  pinch  of  a  smile  on  his  face. 
Just  for  a  minute  he  met  my  eyes.  Then  he 
looked  down  to  get  his  hand  a  little  farther 
away  from  where  the  old  hen  in  the  coop  had 
been  picking  it. 

And  the  other  thing  that  happened  was  that 
up  in  front  of  me  come  running  little  Mrs. 
Bitty  Marshall,  and  her  eyes  was  full  of  tears. 

"Oh,  Mis'  Marsh,"  she  says,  "what  do  you 
s'pose  I  done  ?  I  come  off  and  left  my  lace 
curtain.  I  took  it  down  first  thing  and  pinned 
it  up  in  a  paper  to  bring.  And  then  I  come  off 
and  left  it." 

Before  I  could  say  a  word  Silas  answered  her : 

"The  water'll  never  get  up  that  far,  Mis' 
Marshall,"  he  says,  "don't  you  worry.  Don't 
you  worry  one  bit.  But,"  says  he,  "if  anything 
does  happen  to  it,  Mis'  Marshall,  I'll  tell  you 
now  you  can  have  as  good  a  one  as  we've  got 
in  the  store,  on  me.  There  now,  you've  had 
a  present  to-day  a'ready  !" 

I  guess  she  thanked  him.  I  donno.  All 
I  remember  is  that  pretty  soon  everybody 
begun  to  move  towards  town  and  I  moved 
with  'em.  And  while  we  walked  the  whole 
thing  kind  of  begun  to  take  hold  of  me,  what  it. 


152  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

meant,  and  things  that  had  been  coming  to 
me  all  the  morning  came  to  me  all  together  — 
and  I  wanted  to  chant  'em  a  chant,  like  Deborah 
(but  pronounced  Deborah  when  it's  a  relative). 
And  I  wanted  to  say : 

"O  Lord,  look  down  on  these  eighty  families,  old  and 
young  and  real  young,  that  we've  lived  neighbor  to  all 
our  lives,  and  yet  we  don't  know  half  of  'em,  either  by 
name  or  by  face,  till  now.  Till  now  ! 

"And  some  of  them  we  do  know  individual  has  showed 
up  here  to-day  with  a  back-ground  of  families,  wives 
and  children  they've  got,  just  like  anybody  —  Tippie 
that  drives  the  dray  and  that's  helped  moved  everybody ; 
for  twelve  years  he's  moved  my  refrigerator  out  and  my 
cook  stove  in,  and  vicious  verses,  as  regular  as  Spring  come 
and  Autumn  arrived ;  and  there  all  the  time  he  had  a 
wife,  with  a  cameo  pin,  and  three  little  Tippies  in  plaid 
skirts  and  pink  cheeks,  asking  everybody  for  a  drink  of 
water  just  like  your  own  child,  and  one  of  'em  so  nice  that 
he  might  of  been  anybody's  instead  of  just  Tippie's. 

"And  Mamie  Felt,  that  does  up  lace  curtains  of  them 
that  can  afford  to  have  'em  done  up  and  dries  'em  on  a 
frame  so's  they  hang  straight  and  not  like  a  waterfall 
with  its  expression  blowing  sideways,  same  as  mine  do  — 
there's  Mamie  with  her  old  mother  and  a  cripple  brother 
that  we've  never  guessed  about,  and  that  she  was  doing 
for  all  the  whole  time. 

"And  Absalom  Ricker's  old  mother,  that's  mourning 
bitter  because  she  left  her  coral  pin  with  a  dog  on  behind 
on  the  Flats  that  her  husband  give  it  to  her  when  they  was 
engaged  .  .  .  and  we  knew  she  was  married,  but  not  one 


THE  FLOOD  153 

of  us  had  thought  of  her  as  human  enough  ever  to  have 
been  engaged.  And  Mis'  Haskitt  with  her  new  black 
dress,  and  Mis'  Dole  with  her  clean-ironed  clothes  bars, 
and  Mis'  Bitty  Marshall  with  her  baby  and  her  little 
chickens  and  her  lace  curtain,  and  Bitty  with  his  grocery 
store. 

"Lord,  we  thank  thee  for  letting  us  see  them,  and  all 
the  rest  of  'em,  close  up  to. 

"We're  glad  that  now  just  because  the  Mad  river 
flowed  into  the  homes  that  we  ain't  often  been  in  or  ever, 
if  any,  and  drove  up  to  us  the  folks  that  we've  never 
thought  so  very  much  about,  we're  glad  to  get  the  feeling 
that  I  had  when  I  heard  our  grocery-boy  knew  how  to 
hand-carve  wood  and  our  mail  man  was  announced  to  sing 
a  bass  solo,  that  we  never  thought  they  had  any  regular 
lives,  separate  from  milk  and  mail. 

"And  let  us  keep  that  feeling,  O  Lord  !     Amen." 

And  I  says  right  out  of  the  fullness  of  the  lump 
in  my  throat : 

"Don't  these  folks  seem  so  much  more  folks 
than  they  ever  did  before  ?" 

Mis'  Merriman  that  was  near  me,  answered 
up: 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  says,  "they're  in 
trouble.  Ain't  you  no  compassion  to  you  ?" 

"Some,"  says  I,  modest,  "but  where'd  that 
compassion  come  from  ?  It  didn't  just  grow 
up  now,  did  it  ?  —  like  Abraham's  gourd,  or 
whoever  it  was  that  had  one  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  she  says  irritable.     "It's  in  us  all, 


154  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

of   course.     But   it   takes    trouble   to   bring   it 


out.' 


"Why  does  it  take  trouble  to  bring  it  out  ?" 
I  says  and  I  looked  ahead  at  us  all  a-streaming 
down  Daphne  Street,  just  like  it  was  some  nice 
human  doings.  "Why  does  it  ?  Here's  us  all, 
and  it  only  takes  a  minute  to  get  us  all  going, 
with  our  hands  in  our  pockets  and  lumps  in 
our  throats  and  our  sympathy  just  as  busy 
as  it  ever  was  for  our  little  family  in-four-walls 
affairs.  Now,"  I  says,  "that  love  and  sym 
pathy,  and  them  pockets  and  them  throats 
are  all  here,  just  the  same,  day  after  day. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  are  them  things 
doing  with  themselves  when  nobody  is  in  active 
trouble?" 

And  then  I  said  my  creed : 

"O,  when  we  get  to  working  as  hard  to  keep 
things  from  happening  as  we  work  when  it's 
happened,  won't  living  be  fun  ?" 

"Well,  of  course  we  couldn't  prevent  floods," 
says  Mis'  Merriman,  "and  them  natural  things." 

"Shucks  !"  I  says,  simple.  "If  we  knew 
as  much  about  frosts  and  hurricanes  as  we  do 
about  comets  —  we'd  show  you.  And  do  you 
think  it's  any  harder  to  bank  in  a  river  than  it 
is  to  build  a  subway  —  if  there  was  the  same 
money  in  it  for  the  company  ?" 


THE  FLOOD  155 

Just  then  the  noon  whistles  blew  —  all  of 
'em  together,  round-house  and  brick-yard,  so's 
you  couldn't  tell  'em  apart ;  and  the  sun  come 
shining  down  on  us  all,  going  along  on  Daphne 
Street.  And  all  of  a  sudden  Mis'  Merriman 
looked  over  to  me  and  smiled,  and  so  I  done 
to  her,  and  I  saw  that  our  morning  together  and 
our  feeling  together  had  made  us  forget  what 
ever  there'd  been  between  us  to  forget  about. 
And  I  ain't  ever  in  my  life  felt  so  kin  to  folks. 
I  felt  kinner  than  I  knew  I  was. 

That  night,  tired  as  I  was,  I  walked  over  to 
see  Mis'  Sykes's  night-blooming  cereus  —  I 
don't  see  enough  pretty  things  to  miss  one  when 
I  can  get  to  it.  And  there,  sitting  on  Mis' 
Sykes's  front  porch,  with  her  shoes  slipped  off 
to  rest  her  feet,  was  Mis'  Holcomb-that-was- 
Mame  Bliss. 

"Mis'  Sykes  is  out  getting  in  a  few  pieces 
she  washed  out  and  forgot,"  says  Mame,  "and 
the  Marshalls  is  all  down  town  in  a  body  sending 
a  postal  to  say  they're  safe.  Silas  went  too." 

"The  Marshalls!"  says  I.     "Are  they  here?" 

Mame  nodded.  "Silas  asked  'em,"  she  says. 
"Him  and  Bitty've  been  looking  over  grocery 
stock  catalogues.  Silas's  been  advising  him 
some." 


156  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Mame  and  I  smiled  in  concert.  But  whether 
the  flood  done  it,  or  whether  we  done  it  —  who 
cared  ? 

"But,  land,  you,  Mame  !"  I  says.  "I  thought 
you  —  I  thought  Mis'  Sykes  .  .  ." 

"I  know  it,"  says  Mame.  "I  was.  She 
did.  But  the  first  thing  I  knew  to-day,  there 
we  was  peeling  potatoes  together  in  the  same 
pan,  and  we  done  it  all  afternoon.  I  guess  we 
kind  of  forgot  about  our  bad  feeling.  ..." 

I  set  there,  smiling  in  the  dark.  ...  I  donno 
whether  you  know  a  village,  along  toward  night, 
with  the  sky  still  pink,  and  folks  watering  their 
front  lawns  and  calling  to  each  other  across  the 
streets,  and  a  little  smell  of  bon-fire  smoke 
coming  from  somewheres  ?  It  was  like  that. 
And  when  Mis'  Sykes  come  to  tell  us  the  flower 
was  beginning  to  bloom,  I  says  to  myself  that 
there  was  lots  more  in  bloom  in  the  world  than 
any  of  us  guessed. 


THE  PARTY 

Mis'  FIRE  CHIEF  MERRIMAN  done  her 
mourning  like  she  done  her  house  work  — 
thorough.  She  was  the  kind  of  a  housekeeper 
that  looks  on  the  week  as  made  up  of  her  duties, 
and  the  days  not  needing  other  names  :  Wash 
day,  Ironday,  Mend-day,  Bakeday,  Freeday, 
Scrubday,  and  Sunday  —  that  was  how  they 
went.  With  them  nothing  interfered  without 
it  was  a  circus  or  a  convention  or  a  company  or 
the  extra  work  on  holidays.  She  kept  house 
all  over  her,  earnest ;  and  when  the  Fire  Chief 
died,  that  was  the  way  she  mourned. 

When  I  say  mourning  I  mean  what  you  do 
besides  the  feeling  bad  part.  She  felt  awful 
bad  about  her  husband,  but  her  mourning  was 
somehow  kind  of  separate  from  her  grieving. 
Her  grieving  was  done  with  her  feelings,  but 
her  mourning  was  done  more  physical,  like  a 
diet.  After  the  first  year  there  was  certain 
things  she  would  and  wouldn't  do,  count  of 
mourning,  and  nothing  could  change  them. 

Weddings  and  funerals  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merri- 
man  stayed  true  to.  She  would  go  to  either. 

157 


1 58  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Getting  connect'  or  getting  buried,"  she  said, 
"them  are  both  religious  occasions,  and  they's 
somethin'  so  sad  about  either  of  'em  that  they 
kind  of  fit  in  with  weeds." 

But  she  wouldn't  go  to  a  party  if  there  was 
more  than  three  or  four  to  it,  and  not  then  if 
one  of  'em  was  a  stranger  to  her.  And  she 
wouldn't  go  to  it  unless  it  was  to  a  house  — 
picnics,  where  you  sat  around  on  the  ground, 
she  said,  was  too  informal  for  them  in  mourning. 
Church  meetings  she  went  to,  but  not  club 
meetings,  except  the  Cemetery  Improvement 
Sodality  ones.  It  was  like  keeping  track  of 
etiquette  to  know  what  to  do  with  Mis'  Fire 
Chief  Merriman. 

"Seems  though  Aunt  Hettie  is  more  married 
now  than  she  was  when  Uncle  Eben  was  living," 
her  niece  use'  to  say. 

It  was  on  the  little  niece,  Harriet  Wells,  — 
named  for  Mis'  Chief  and  come  to  live  with 
her  a  while  before  the  Fire  Chief  died,  —  it 
was  on  her  that  Mis'  Merriman's  mourning 
etiquette  fell  the  heaviest.  Harriet  was  twenty 
and  woman-pretty  and  beau-interested ;  and 
Amos  More,  that  worked  in  Eppleby's  feed  store 
and  didn't  hev  no  folks,  he'd  been  shining  round 
the  Merriman  house  some,  and  Harriet  had  been 
shining  back,  modest  and  low-wicked,  but  lit. 


THE  PARTY  159 

He  was  spending  mebbe  a  couple  of  evenings  a 
week  there  and  taking  Harriet  to  sociables  and 
entertainments  some.  But  when  the  Fire  Chief 
died  Mis'  Merriman  set  her  foot  down  on  Amos. 

"I  couldn't  stand  it,"  she  says,  "to  hev  a 
man  comin'  here  that  wasn't  the  Chief.  I 
couldn't  stand  it  to  hev  sparkin'  an'  courtin' 
goin'  on  all  around  me.  An'  if  I  should  hev 
to  hev  a  weddin'  got  ready  for  in  this  house  — 
the  dressmakin'  an'  like  that  —  I  believe  I 
should  scream." 

So  Amos  he  give  up  going  there  and  just  went 
flocking  around  by  himself,  and  Harriet,  she  give 
all  her  time  to  her  aunt,  looking  like  a  little 
lonesome  candle  that  nothing  answered  back  to. 
And  Mis'  Merriman's  mourning  flourished  like 
a  green  bay  tree. 

It  was  into  this  state  of  affairs,  more  than  a 
year  after  the  Chief  died,  that  Mis'  Merriman's 
cousin's  letter  come.  Mis'  Merriman's  cousin 
had  always  been  one  of  them  myth  folks  that 
every  town  has  —  the  relations  and  friends  of 
each  other  that  is  talked  about  and  known  about 
and  heard  from  and  even  asked  after,  but  that 
none  of  us  ever  sees.  This  cousin,  Maria 
Carpenter,  was  one  of  our  most  intimate  myths. 
Next  to  the  Fire  Chief  himself,  Mis'  Merri 
man  give  the  most  of  her  time  in  conversation  • 


160  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

to  her.  She  was  real  dressy  —  she  used  to  send 
Mis'  Merriman  samples  of  her  clothes  and  their 
trimmings,  and  we  all  felt  real  well  acquainted 
and  interested ;  and  she  was  rich  and  busy  and 
from  the  city,  and  the  kind  of  a  relation  it  done 
Mis'  Merriman  good  to  have  connected  with 
her,  and  her  photograph  with  a  real  lace  collar 
was  on  the  parlor  mantel.  She  had  never  been 
to  Friendship  Village,  and  we  used  to  wonder 
why  not. 

And  then  she  got  the  word  that  her  cousin 
was  actually  flesh-an'-blood  coming.  I  run  in  to 
Mis'  Merriman's  on  my  way  home  from  town 
just  after  Harriet  had  brought  her  up  the  letter, 
and  Mis'  Merriman  was  all  of  a  heap  in  the  big 
chair. 

"Calliope,"  she  says,  "the  blow  is  down  ! 
Maria  Carpenter  is  a-comin'  Tuesday  to  stay 
till  Friday." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "ain't  you  glad,  Mis'  Fire 
Chief  ?  Company  ain't  no  great  chore  now 
the  telephone  is  in,"  I  says  to  calm  her. 

She  looked  up   at  me,  sad,  over  her  glasses. 

"What  good  is  it  to  have  her  come  ?"  she 
says.  "I  can't  show  her  off.  There  won't 
be  a  livin'  place  I  can  take  her  to.  Nobody'll 
see  her  nor  none  of  her  clothes." 

"It's    too   bad,"    I    says    absent,    "it   didn't 


THE  PARTY  161 

happen  so's  you  could  give  a  company  for  Miss 
Carpenter." 

Mis'  Fire  Chief  burst  out  like  her  feelings  over 
flowed  themselves. 

"It's  what  I've  always  planned,"  she  says. 
"Many  a  night  I've  laid  awake  an'  thought 
about  the  company  I'd  give  when  Maria  come. 
An'  Maria  never  could  come.  An'  now  here 
is  Maria  all  but  upon  me,  an'  the  company 
can't  be.  I  know  she'll  bring  a  dress,  expectin' 
it.  She  knows  it's  past  the  first  year,  an'  she'll 
think  I'll  feel  free  to  entertain.  I  donno  but 
I  ought  to  telegraph  her :  Pleased  to  see  you  but 
don't  you  expect  a  company.  Wouldn't  that 
be  more  open  an'  aboveboard  ?  Oh,  dear!" 
Mis'  Fire  Chief  says,  rockin'  in  her  chair  that 
wouldn't  rock,  "I'm  well  an'  the  house  is  all 
in  order  an'  I  could  afford  a  company  if  I  didn't 
go  in  deep.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  to  it. 
That's  it,  Calliope ;  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  to  it." 

I  remember  Mis'  Fire  Chief  kind  of  stopped 
then,  like  she  thought  of  something;  but  I 
wasn't  looking  at  her.  I  was  watching  Harriet 
Wells  that  was  standing  by  the  window  a  little 
to  one  side.  And  I  see  her  lift  her  hand  and 
give  it  a  little  wave  and  lay  it  on  the  glass  like 
a  signal  to  somebody.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I 
knew  it  was  half  past  'leven  and  that  Amos* 


162  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

More  went  home  early  to  his  dinner  at  the 
boarding  house  so's  to  get  back  at  twelve-thirty, 
when  Eppleby  went  for  his,  and  that  nine  to 
ten  it  was  Amos  that  Harriet  was  waving  at. 
I  knew  it  special  and  sure  when  Harriet  turned 
back  to  the  room  with  a  nice  little  guilty  look 
and  a  pink  spot  up  high  on  both  her  cheeks. 
And  something  sort  o'  shut  up  in  my  throat. 
It  seems  so  easy  for  folks  to  get  married  in 
this  world,  and  here  was  these  two  not  doing 
it. 

All  of  a  sudden  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman 
jumped  up  on  to  her  feet. 

"Calliope  Marsh,"  says  she,  "I've  got  a 
plan.  I  can  do  it,  if  you'll  help  me.  Why 
can't  I  give  a  company,"  she  says,  "an5  not 
come  in  the  room  ?  A  hostess  has  to  be  in  the 
kitchen  most  of  the  time  anyway.  Why  can't 
I  just  stay  there,  an'  leave  Maria  be  in  the  par 
lor,  an'  me  not  be  to  the  company  at  all  ?" 

We  talked  it  over,  and  neither  of  us  see  why 
not.  Mis'  Sykes,  when  she  gives  her  series  of 
companies,  three  in  three  days  running,  she  often 
don't  set  foot  in  the  parlor  till  after  the  refresh 
ments  are  served.  I  remember  once  she  was 
so  faint  she  had  to  go  back  to  the  kitchen  and 
eat  her  own  supper,  and  we  didn't  say  good-by 
to  her  at  all,  except  as  some  of  us  that  knew 


THE   PARTY  163 

her  best  went  and  stuck  our  heads  out  the  kitchen 
door.  So  with  all  us  ladies  —  we  done  the  same 
way  when  we  entertained,  so  be  we  give  'em  any 
kind  of  a  lay-out. 

"I  won't  say  anything  about  the  party  bein' 
for  Maria,  one  way  or  the  other,"  she  says  ; 
"I  won't  make  a  spread  about  it,  nor  much  of 
an  event.  I'll  just  send  out  invites  for  a  quiet 
time.  Then  when  they  come,  you  can  stay  in 
the  room  with  Maria  at  first  an'  get  her  intro 
duced.  An'  after  that  the  party  can  go  ahead 
on  its  own  legs,  just  as  well  without  me  as  with 
me.  I  could  only  fly  in  now  an'  then  anyhow, 
an'  talk  to  'em  snatchy,  with  my  mind  on  the 
supper.  Why  ain't  it  just  as  good  to  stay  right 
out  of  it  altogether  ?" 

We  see  it  reasonable.  And  a  couple  of  days 
before  Maria  Carpenter  was  expected,  Mis' 
Fire  Chief,  she  went  to  work,  Harriet  helping 
her,  and  she  got  her  invitations  out.  They  was 
on  some  black  bordered  paper  and  envelopes 
that  Mis'  Fire  Chief  had  had  for  a  mourning 
Christmas  present  an'  had  been  saving.  And 
they  was  worded  real  delicate,  like  Mis'  Fire 
Chief  done  everything : 

Mrs.  Merriman,  At  Home,  Thursday  afternoon,  Four 
o'clock  Sharp,  Thimbles.  Six  o'clock  Supper.  Walk 
right  in  past  the  bell. 


164  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

It  made  quite  a  little  stir  in  Friendship  Vil 
lage,  because  Mis'  Merriman  hadn't  been  any 
wheres  yet.  But  everybody  took  it  all  right. 
And  anyway,  everybody  was  too  busy  getting 
ready,  to  bother  much  over  anything  else.  It's 
quite  a  problem  to  know  what  to  wear  to  a 
winter  company  in  Friendship  Village.  Nobody 
entertains  much  of  any  in  the  winter  —  its  a 
chore  to  get  the  parlor  cleaned  and  het,  and  it's 
cold  for  'em  to  lay  off  their  things,  and  you  can't 
think  up  much  that's  tasty  for  refreshments, 
being  it's  too  cold  to  give  'em  ice  cream.  Mis' 
Fire  Chief  was  giving  the  party  on  the  afternoon 
of  Miss  Carpenter's  three  o'clock  arrival,  in  the 
frank  an'  public  hope  that  somebody  would 
dance  around  during  her  stay  and  give  her  a 
return  invite  out  to  tea  or  somewheres. 

The  morning  of  the  day  that  was  the  day, 
there  come  a  rap  to  my  door  while  I  was  stirring 
up  my  breakfast,  and  there  was  Harriet  Wells, 
bare-headed  and  a  shawl  around  her,  and  looking 
summer-sweet  in  her  little  pink  muslin  dressing 
sacque  that  matched  her  cheeks  and  showed  off 
her  blue  eyes. 

"Aunt  Hettie  wants  to  know,"  she  says, 
"  whether  you  can't  come  over  now  so's  to  get 
an  early  start.  She's  afraid  the  train'll  get  in 
before  we're  ready  for  it." 


THE  PARTY  165 

"Land  !"  I  says,  "I  know  how  she  feels. 
The  last  company  I  give  I  got  up  and  swep'  by 
lamplight  and  had  my  cake  all  in  the  oven  by 
6  A.M.  Come  in  while  I  eat  my  breakfast  and 
I'll  run  right  back  with  you  and  leave  my  dishes 
setting.  How's  your  aunt  standing  it  ?"  I 
ask'  her. 

"Oh,  pretty  well,  thank  you,"  says  Hettie, 
"but  she's  awful  nervous.  She  hasn't  et  for 
two  days  —  not  since  the  invitations  went  out 
o'  the  house  —  an'  last  night  she  dreamt  about 
the  Chief.  That  always  upsets  her  an'  makes 
her  cross  all  next  day." 

"If  she  wasn't  your  aunt,"  I  says,  "I'd  say, 
*  Deliver  me  from  loving  the  dead  so  strong  that 
I'm  ugly  to  the  living.'  But  she  is  your  aunt 
and  a  good  woman  —  so  I'm  mum  as  you  please." 

Hettie,  she  sighs  some.  "She  is  a  good 
woman,"  she  says,  wistful;  "but,  oh,  Mis' 
Marsh,  they's  some  good  women  that  it's 
terrible  hard  to  live  with,"  she  says  —  an' 
then  she  choked  up  a  little  because  she  had 
said  it.  But  I,  and  all  Friendship  Village,  knew 
it  for  the  truth.  And  we  all  wanted  to  be  de 
livered  from  people  that's  so  crazy  to  be  moral 
and  proper  themselves,  in  life  or  in  mourning, 
that  they  walk  over  everybody  else's  rights 
and  stomp  down  everybody's  feelin's.  My  eyes 


1 66  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

filled  up  when  I  looked  at  that  poor,  lonesome 
little  thing,  sacrificed  like  she  was  to  Mis'  Fire 
Chiefs  mourning  spree. 

"Hettie,"  I  says,  "Amos  More  goes  by  here 
every  morning  about  now  on  his  way  to  his  work. 
When  he  goes  by  this  morning,  want  to  know 
what  I'm  going  to  tell  him  ?" 

"Yes'm,"  says  Hettie,  simple,  blushing  up 
like  a  pink  lamp  shade  when  you've  lit  the  lamp. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  him,"  says  I,  "that  I'm 
going  to  ask  Eppleby  Holcomb  to  let  him  off 
for  a  couple  of  ours  or  so  this  morning,  an'  a 
couple  more  this  afternoon.  I  want  he  should 
come  over  to  Mis'  Fire  Chief's  an'  chop  ice  an 
help  turn  freezer."  (We  was  going  to  feed  'em 
ice  cream  even  if  it  was  winter.)  "I'm  getting 
too  old  for  such  fancy  jobs  myself,  and  you 
ain't  near  strong  enough,  and  Mis'  Chief,  I 
know  how  she'll  be.  She  won't  reco'nize  her 
own  name  by  nine  o'clock." 

While  I  was  finding  out  what  cocoanut  and 
raisins  and  such  they'd  got  in  stock,  along 
come  Amos  More,  hands  hanging  loose  like 
he'd  lost  his  grip  on  something.  I  called  to  him, 
and  pretended  not  to  notice  Harriet's  little  look 
into  the  clock-door  looking-glass,  and  when  he 
come  in  I  'most  forgot  what  I'd  meant  to  say 
to  him,  it  was  so  nice  to  see  them  two  together. 


THE   PARTY  167 

I  never  see  two  more  in  love  with  every  look  of 
each  other's. 

"Why,  Harriet!"  says  Amos,  as  if  saying 
her  name  was  his  one  way  of  breathing. 

"Good  mornin',  Amos,"  Harriet  says,  rose- 
pink  and  looking  at  the  back  of  her  hand. 

Amos  just  give  me  a  little  nice  smile,  and 
then  he  didn't  seem  to  know  I  was  in  the  room. 
He  went  straight  up  to  her  and  caught  a-hold 
of  the  fringe  of  her  shawl. 

"Harriet,"  he  says,  "how  long  have  I  got 
to  go  on  livin'  on  the  sight  of  you  through  that 
dinin'-room  window  ?  Yes,  livin'.  It's  the  only 
time  I'm  alive  all  day  long  —  just  when  I  see 
you  there,  signalin'  me  —  an'  when  I  know 
you  ain't  forgot.  But  I  can't  go  on  this  way  — 
I  can't,  I  can't." 

"What  can  I  do  —  what  can  I  do,  Amos?" 
she  says,  faint. 

"Do?  Chuck  everything  for  me  —  if  you 
love  me  enough,"  says  Amos,  neat  as  a  recipe. 

"I  owe  Aunt  Hettie  too  much,"  says  Hettie, 
firm;  "I  ain't  that  kind  —  to  turn  on  her 
ungrateful." 

"I  know  it.  I  love  you  for  that  too,"  says 
Amos,  "  I  love  you  on  account  of  everything  you 
do.  And  I  tell  you  I  can't  live  like  this  much 
longer." 


i68  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Well  said  !"  I  broke  in,  brisk;  "I  can  help 
you  over  this  day  anyhow.  You  go  on  down 
town,  Amos,  and  get  the  stuff  on  this  list  I've 
made  out,  and  then  you  come  on  up  to  Mis' 
Fire  Chief's.  We  need  a  man  and  we  need  you. 
I'll  fix  it  with  Eppleby." 

They  wasn't  any  need  to  explain  to  Mis'  Fire 
Chief.  She  was  so  excited  she  didn't  know 
whether  she  was  a-foot  or  a-horseback.  When 
Amos  got  back  with  the  things  I'd  sent  for  she 
didn't  seem  half  to  sense  it  was  him  I  was  sending 
out  in  the  woodshed  to  chop  ice.  She  didn't 
hev  her  collar  on  nor  her  shoes  buttoned,  and 
she  wasn't  no  more  use  in  that  kitchen  than 
a  dictionary. 

"Oh,  Calliope,"  she  says,  in  a  sort  of  wail, 
"I'm  so  nervous  !" 

"You  go  and  set  down,  Mis'  Fire  Chief,"  says 
I,  "and  button  up  your  shoes.  I've  got  every 
move  of  the  morning  planned  out,"  says  I, 
"so  be  you  don't  interrupt  me." 

Of  course  it  was  her  party  and  all,  but  they's 
some  hostesses  you  hev  to  lay  a  firm  holt  of,  if 
you're  the  helper  and  expect  the  party  to  come 
off  at  all.  And  I  never  see  any  living  hostess 
more  upset  than  was  Mis'  Fire  Chief.  She  give 
all  the  symptoms  —  not  of  a  company,  but  of 
coming  down  with  something. 


THE   PARTY  169 

"Oh,  Calliope,"  says  she,  "everything's 
against  me.  I  donno,"  she  says,  "but  it's  a 
sign  from  the  Chief  in  his  grave  that  I'm  actin' 
against  his  wishes  an'  opposite  to  what  widows 
should.  The  wood  is  green  —  hear  it  siss  an' 
sizzle  in  that  stove  an'  hold  back  its  heat  from 
me.  The  cistern  is  dry  —  we've  hed  to  pump 
water  to  the  neighbors.  Not  a  hen  has  cackled 
this  livelong  mornin'  in  the  coop.  The  milk 
man  couldn't  only  leave  me  three  quarts  instead 
of  four,  though  ordered  ahead.  An'  I  feel  like 
death  —  I  feel  like  death,"  says  she,  "part  on 
account  of  the  Chief  —  ain't  it  like  he  was 
speakin'  his  disapprovin'  in  all  these  little  minor 
ways  ?  —  an'  part  because  I  know  I'm  comin' 
down  with  a  hard  cold  an'  I'd  ought  to  be  in 
bed  all  lard  an'  pepper  this  livin'  minute.  Oh, 
dear  me  !  An'  Maria  all  but  upon  me.  I  don't 
know  how  I'll  ever  get  through  this  day." 

"Mis'  Fire  Chief,"  says  I,  "you  go  and  lay 
down  and  try  to  get  some  rest." 

"No,  Calliope,"  says  she,  "the  beds  is  all 
ready  for  the  company  to  lay  their  hats  off,  an' 
the  lounge  pillows  has  been  beat  light  on  the 
line." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "go  off  an'  take  a  walk." 

"Not  without  I  walk  to  the  cemetery,"  says 
she,  "an'  that  I  couldn't  bear.  Not  to-day." 


170  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Well,"  says  I,  "then  you  let  me  put  a  wet 
cloth  over  your  head  and  eyes,  and  you  set  still 
and  stop  talkin'.  You'll  be  wore  to  a  thread," 
says  I. 

And  that  was  what  I  done  to  her,  expecting 
that  if  she  didn't  keep  still  I'd  bake  the  ice 
cream  and  freeze  the  cake  and  lose  my  own  head 
entire. 

Out  in  the  shed  I'd  set  Amos  to  cracking  ice, 
and  Harriet  to  cracking  nuts,  with  a  flatiron  and 
a  hammer.  And  pretty  soon  I  stepped  along  to 
see  how  things  was  going.  Land,  land,  it  was 
a  pretty  sight !  They  was  both  working  away, 
but  Amos  was  looking  down  at  her  more'n  to 
his  work,  and  Harriet  was  looking  up  at  him 
like  he  was  all  of  it  —  and  the  whole  air  was 
pleasant  with  something  sweeter  than  could 
be  named.  So  I  left  them  two  alone,  well 
knowing  that  I  could  manage  a  company  sole 
by  myself  yet  a  while,  no  matter  how  much 
courting  and  mourning  was  going  on  all  around 
me. 

And  everything  went  fine,  in  spite  of  Mis' 
Fire  Chief's  looking  like  death  in  the  rocker,  with 
a  wet  rag  on  her  brow. 

But  she  kept  lifting  up  one  corner  and  giving 
directions. 

"No    pink    frostin',    Calliope,    you    know," 


THE  PARTY  171 

she  says,  "only  white.  An'  no  colored  flowers 
—  only  white  ones.  You'll  have  to  write  the 
place  cards  —  my  hand  shakes  so  I  don't  dare 
trust  myself.  But  I'll  cut  up  the  ribbin  for  the 
sandwiches  —  I  can  do  that  much,"  says  she. 

The  place  cards  was  mourning  ones,  with 
broad  black  edges,  and  the  ribbin  to  tie  up  the 
sandwiches  was  black  too.  And  the  center 
piece  was  one  Mis'  Fire  Chief  and  Hettie  hed 
been  up  early  that  morning  making  —  it  was 
a  set  piece  from  the  Chief's  funeral,  a  big  goblet, 
turned  bottom  side  up,  done  in  white  geraniums 
with  "He  is  Near"  in  purple  everlastings. 
The  table  was  going  to  look  real  tasty,  Mis' 
Fire  Chief  thought,  all  in  black  and  white  so  — 
with  little  sprays  of  willow  laid  around  on  the 
cloth  instead  of  ferns. 

"I've  done  the  best  I  could,"  she  said,  solemn, 
"to  make  the  occasion  do  honor  to  Maria  an' 
pay  reverence  to  the  Chief." 

I  had  just  finally  persuaded  her  to  go  up-stairs 
and  look  the  chambers  over  and  then  try  to  take 
a  little  rest  somewheres  around,  when  Amos 
come  to  the  shed  door  to  tell  me  the  freezer 
wouldn't  turn  no  more,  and  was  it  broke  or  was 
the  cream  froze.  And  Mis'  Fire  Chief,  seeing 
him  coming  in  the  shed  way,  seemed  to  sense  for 
the  first  time  that  he  was  there. 


172  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Amos  More,"  says  she,  "what  you  doin' 
here?" 

"I  ask'  him,"  says  I,  hasty;  "I  had  to  have 
his  help  about  the  ice." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  one  hand. 
"Courtin'  an'  entertainin'  goin'  on  in  the 
Chief's  house,"  she  said,  "an'  him  only  just 
gone  from  us  !" 

"Well,"  s'l,  "I've  got  to  have  some  man's 
help  out  here  this  afternoon  —  why  not 
Amos's?" 

"Oh,"  says  Mis'  Merriman,  "you're  all  against 
me  but  the  Chief,  an'  him  helpless." 

"The  Chief,"  says  I,  "was  always  careful 
of  your  health.  You'll  make  yourself  sick 
taking  on  so,  Mis'  Fire  Chief,"  I  told  her.  "You 
go  and  put  flowers  in  the  chambers  and  leave 
the  rest  to  me.  Put  your  mind,"  I  told  her, 
"on  the  surprise  you've  got  for  your  guests 
that's  comin'  -  -  Maria  Carpenter  here  and  all ! 
Besides,"  I  couldn't  help  sticking  in,  "I  donno 
as  Amos  is  cold  poison." 

So  we  got  her  off  up-stairs. 

Maria  Carpenter's  train  was  due  at  3  : 03, 
so  she  was  just  a-going  to  have  the  right  time  to 
get  ready  when  the  afternoon  would  begin, 
because  in  Friendship  Village  "sharp  four" 
means  four  o'clock.  I  had  left  the  sandwiches 


THE  PARTY  173 

to  make  last  thing,  and  I  come  back  from  my 
dinner  towards  three  and  tiptoes  through  the 
house  so's  not  to  disturb  Mis'  Fire  Chief  if 
she  was  resting,  and  I  went  into  the  pantry  and 
begun  cutting  and  spreading  bread.  I  hadn't 
been  there  but  a  little  while  before  the  stair 
door  into  the  kitchen  opened  and  I  heard  Hettie 
come  down,  humming  a  little.  But  before  I 
could  sing  out  to  her,  the  woodshed  door  opened 
too,  and  in  come  Amos  that  had  been  out  putting 
more  salt  in  the  freezer. 

"  Hettie  !"  he  says  in  a  low  voice,  and  I  see 
she  prob'ly  hed  on  her  white  muslin  and  was 
looking  like  angels,  and  more.  And  —  "I  won't," 
says  Amos,  then  —  "I  won't  —  though  I  can 
hardly  keep  my  hands  off  from  you  —  dear." 

"It  don't  seem  right  even  to  have  you  call 
me  'dear,'"  says  Hettie,  sad. 

Amos  burst  right  out.  "It  is  right  —  it  is 
right!"  says  he.  "They  can't  nobody  make  me 
feel  'dear'  is  wicked,  not  when  it  means  as  dear 
as  you  are  to  me.  Hettie,"  Amos  says,  "sit 
down  here  a  minute." 

"Not  us.  Not  together,"  says  Hettie, 
nervous. 

"Yes  !"  says  Amos,  commanding,  "I  don't 
know  when  I'll  see  you  again.  Set  down  here, 
by  me." 


174  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

And  by  the  little  stillness,  I  judged  she  done 
so.  And  I  says  this  :  "Them  poor  things  ain't 
had  ten  minutes  with  each  other  in  over  a  year, 
and  if  they  know  I'm  here,  that'll  spoil  this  time. 
I'd  better  stay  where  I  am,  still,  with  my 
thoughts  on  my  sandwiches."  And  that  was 
what  I  done.  But  I  couldn't  —  I  couldn't  — • 
and  neither  could  most  anyone  —  of  helped  a 
word  or  two  leaking  through  the  pantry  door 
and  the  sandwich  thoughts. 

"I  just  wanted  to  pretend  —  for  a  minute," 
Amos  said,  "that  this  was  our  house.  An'  our 
kitchen.  An'  that  we  was  settin'  here  side  of 
the  stove  an'  belonged." 

"Oh,  Amos,"  said  Hettie,  "it  don't  seem  right 
to  pretend  that  way  with  Aunt  Hettie's  stove 
—  an'  her  feelin'  the  way  she  does." 

"Yes,  it  is  right,"  says  Amos,  stout.  "Hettie  ! 
Don't  you  see  ?  She  don't  feel  that  way.  She's 
just  nervous  with  grievin',  an'  it  comes  out  like 
that.  She  don't  care  —  really.  At  least  not 
anything  like  the  way  she  thinks  she  does.  Now 
don't  let's  think  about  her,  Hettie  —  dearest ! 
Think  about  now.  An'  let's  just  pretend  for 
a  minute  it  was  then.  You  know  —  then!" 

"Well,"  says  Hettie,  unwilling,  —  and  yet, 
oh,  so  willing,  —  "if  it  was  then,  what  would  you 
be  sayin'  ?" 


THE   PARTY  175 

"I'd  be  sayin'  what  I  say  now,"  says  Amos, 
"an'  what  I'll  say  to  the  end  o'  time:  that  I 
love  you  so  much  that  the  world  ain't  the  world 
without  you.  But  I  want  to  hear  you  say 
somethin'.  What  would  you  be  sayin',  Hettie, 
if  it  was  then?" 

I  knew  how  she  dimpled  up  as  she  answered 
—  Hettie's  dimples  was  like  the  wind  had  dented 
a  rose  leaf. 

"I'd  prob'ly  be  sayin',"  says  Hettie,  "Amos, 
you  ain't  filled  the  water  pail.  An'  I'll  have  to 
have  another  armful  o'  kindlin'." 

'"Well,"  says  Amos,  "but  then  when  I'd 
brought  'em.  What  would  you  say  then  ?" 

"I'd  say,  'What  do  you  want  for  dinner?'" 
said  Hettie,  demure.  But  even  this  was  too 
much  for  Amos. 

"An'  then  we'd  cook  it,"  he  says,  almost 
reverent.  "Oh,  Hettie  —  don't  it  seem  like 
heaven  to  think  of  us  seein'  to  all  them  little 
things  —  together  ?" 

I  loved  Hettie  for  her  answer.  Coquetting 
is  all  right  some  of  the  time ;  but  —  some  of 
the  time  —  so  is  real  true  talk. 

"Yes,"  she  says  soft,  "it  does.  But  it  seems 
like  earth  too  —  an*  Pm  glad  of  it" 

"Oh,  Hettie,"  says  Amos,  "marry  me.  Don't 
let's  go  on  like  this." 


176  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Dear,"  says  Hettie,  all  solemn,  —  and  for 
getting  that  "dear"  was  such  a  wicked  word, 
—  "dear,  I'd  marry  you  this  afternoon  if  it 
wasn't  for  Aunt  Hettie's  feelin's.  But  I  can't 
hurt  her  —  I  can't,"  she  says. 

Well,  just  then  the  door  bell  rung,  and  Hettie 
she  flew  to  answer  it,  and  Amos  he  lit  back  to 
the  woodshed  and  went  to  chopping  more  ice 
like  life  lay  all  that  way.  And  I  was  just  coming 
out  of  the  butt'ry  with  a  pan  of  thin  sandwiches 
ready  for  the  black  ribbins,  when  I  heard  a 
kind  of  groan  and  a  scuffle,  and  down-stairs 
come  Mis'  Fire  Chief  Merriman,  and  all  but  fell 
into  the  kitchen.  She  had  something  in  her 
hand. 

"Calliope  —  Calliope  Marsh,"  says  she,  all 
wailing  like  a  bereavement,  "Cousin  Maria 
has  fell  an  broke  her  wrist,  an'  she  ain't  comin' 
at  all!" 

I  stood  still,  real  staggered.  I  see  what  it 
meant  to  Mis'  Merriman  —  invites  all  out, 
Cousin  Maria  for  surprise  and  hostess  in  one, 
Mis'  Merriman  not  figgering  on  appearing  at 
all,  account  of  the  Chief,  and  the  company  right 
that  minute  on  the  way. 

"What'll  I  do  — what'll  I  do?"  cries  Mis' 
Merriman,  sinking  down  on  the  bottom  step 
in  her  best  black  with  the  crepe  cuffs.  "Oh," 


THE  PARTY  177 

she  says,  "it's  a  judgment  upon  me.  I'll  hev 
to  turn  my  guests  from  my  door.  I'll  be  the 
laughing-stock,"  says  she,  wild. 

And  just  then,  like  the  trump  of  judgment  to 
her,  we  heard  the  front  door  shut,  and  the  first 
folks  to  come  went  marching  up  the  stairs. 
And  at  the  same  minute  Amos  come  in  from 
the  shed  with  the  dasher  out  of  the  second 
freezer,  and  Hettie's  eyes  run  to  him  like  he 
was  their  goal  and  their  home.  And  then  I 
says  : 

"Mis'  Fire  Chief.  Leave  your  company  come 
in.  Serve  'em  the  food  of  your  house,  just  like 
you've  got  it  ready.  Stay  back  in  the  kitchen 
and  don't  go  in  the  parlor  and  do  it  all  just  like 
you'd  planned.  And  in  place  of  Maria  Carpen 
ter  and  the  surprise  you'd  meant,"  says  I,  "give 
'em  another  surprise.  Leave  Hettie  and  Amos 
be  married  in  your  parlor,  like  they  want  to  be 
and  like  all  Friendship  Village  wants  to  see  'em. 
Couldn't  nothing  be  sweeter." 

Mis'  Merriman  stared  up  to  me,  and  set  and 
rocked. 

"A  weddin',"  she  says,  "a  weddin'  in  the 
parlor  where  the  very  last  gatherin'  was  the 
funeral  of  the  Chief  ?  It's  sacrilege  —  sacri 
lege  !"  she  says,  wild. 

"Mis'  Merriman,"  I  says,  simple,  "what  do 


178  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

you  reckon  this  earth  is  about  ?  What,"  says 
I,  "is  the  purpose  the  Lord  God  Most  High 
created  it  for  out  of  nothing  ?  As  near  as  I 
can  make  out,"  I  told  her,  "and  I've  give  the 
matter  some  study,  He's  got  a  purpose  hid 
way  deep  in  His  heart,  and  way  deep  in  the 
hearts  of  us  all  has  got  to  be  the  same  purpose, 
or  we  might  just  as  well,  and  a  good  sight  better, 
be  dead.  And  a  part  of  that  purpose  is  to  keep 
His  world  a-going,  and  that  can't  be  done,  as  I 
see  it,  by  looking  back  over  our  shoulders  to  the 
dead  that's  gone,  however  dear,  and  forgetting 
the  living  that's  all  around  us,  yearning  and 
thirsting  and  passioning  for  their  happiness. 
And  a  part  of  His  purpose  is  to  put  happiness 
into  this  world,  so's  people  can  brighten  up  and 
hearten  out  and  do  the  work  of  the  world  like 
He  meant  'em  to.  And  you,  Mis'  Merriman," 
says  I,  plain,  "are  a-holding  back  from  both 
them  purposes  of  God's,  and  a-doing  your  best 
to  set  'em  to  naught." 

Mis'  Merriman,  she  looked  up  kind  of  dazed 
from  where  she  was  a-sitting.  "I  ain't  never 
supposed  I  was  livin'  counter  to  the  Almighty," 
she  says,  some  stiff. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "none  of  us  supposes  that  as 
much  as  we'd  ought  to.  And  my  notion,  and 
the  notion  of  most  of  Friendship  Village,  it's 


THE  PARTY  179 

just  what  you're  doing,  Mis'  Fire  Chief,"  says 
I,  —  "in  some  respec's." 

"Oh,  even  if  I  wasn't,  I  don't  want  to  be  the 
laughin'-stock  to-day,"  says  she,  weak,  and 
beginning  to  cry. 

"Hettie  and  Amos,"  says  I,  then,  for  form's 
sake,  "if  Mis'  Merriman  agrees  to  this,  do  you 
agree?" 

"Yes  !  Oh,  yes!"  says  Amos,  like  the  organ 
and  the  benediction  and  the  Amen,  all  rolled 
into  one. 

"Yes,"  says  Hettie,  shy  as  a  rose,  but  yet 
like  a  rose  nodding  on  its  stalk,  positive. 

"And  you,  Mis'  Fire  Chief  ?"  says  I. 

She  nodded  behind  her  hands  that  covered 
up  her  face.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  says 
she,  faint.  "Go  on  ahead  —  all  of  you  !" 

My,  if  we  didn't  have  to  fly  around.  They 
wasn't  no  time  for  dress  changing.  Hettie  was 
in  white  muslin  and  Amos  in  every-day,  but  it 
was  all  right  because  she  was  Hettie  and  because 
he  looked  like  a  king  in  anything.  And  they 
was  so  many  last  things  to  do  that  none  of  us 
thought  of  dress  anyhow.  It  was  four  o'clock  by 
then,  and  folks  had  been  stomping  in  "past  the 
bell"  and  marching  up-stairs  and  laying  off  their 
things  —  being  as  everybody  knows  what's  what 
in  Friendship  Village  and  don't  hev  to  be  told' 


i8o  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

where  to  go,  same  as  some  —  till,  judging  by 
the  sound,  they  had  all  got  there  and  was  clacking 
in  the  parlor,  and  Mis'  Fire  Chief's  party  had 
begun.  And  Mis'  Fire  Chief  herself  revived 
enough  to  offer  to  tie  the  ribbins  around  the 
sandwiches. 

"My  land  !"  I  says,  "we  can't  do  that.  We 
can't  have  black  ribbin  round  the  wedding 
sandwiches." 

But  Hettie,  she  broke  in,  sweet  and  dignified, 
and  before  her  aunt  could  say  a  word.  ;<Yes, 
we  can,"  she  says,  "yes,  we  can.  I  ain't  super 
stitious,  same  as  some.  Uncle's  centerpiece 
an'  his  willow  on  the  tablecloth  an'  his  black- 
ribbin  sandwiches,"  says  she,  "is  goin'  to  stay 
just  the  way  they  are,  weddin'  or  no  weddin'," 
says  she.  "Ain't  they,  Amos  ?"  she  ask'  him. 

"You  bet  you,"  says  Amos,  fervent,  just  like 
he  would  have  agreed  to  anything  under  heaven 
that  Hettie  said.  And  Mis'  Merriman,  she 
looked  at  'em  then,  grateful  and  even  resigned. 
And  time  Amos  had  gone  and  got  back  with  the 
license  and  the  minister  we  were  all  ready. 

They  sent  me  in  to  sort  of  pave  the  way. 
I  slips  in  through  the  hall  and  stood  in  the  door 
a  minute  wondering  how  I'd  tell  'em.  There 
they  all  was,  setting  sewing  and  rocking  and 
gossiping,  contented  as  if  they  had  a  hostess  in 


THE  PARTY  181 

every  room.  And  not  one  of  'em  suspecting.  Oh, 
I  loved  'em  one  and  all,  and  I  loved  the  way  they 
was  all  used  to  each  other,  and  talking  natural 
about  crochet  patterns  and  recipes  for  oatmeal 
cookies  and  what's  good  to  keep  hands  from 
chapping  —  not  one  of  'em  putting  on  or  setting 
their  best  foot  forwards  or  trying  to  act  their 
best,  same  as  they  might  with  company,  but 
just  being  themselves,  natural  and  forgetting. 
And  I  was  glad,  deep  down  in  my  heart,  that 
Maria  Carpenter  hadn't  come  near.  Not  glad 
that  she  had  broke  her  wrist,  of  course  — 
but  that  she  hadn't  come  near.  And  when  I 
stepped  out  to  tell  'em  what  was  going  to  happen, 
I  was  so  glad  in  my  throat  that  I  couldn't  say  a 
word  only  just  — 

"Friends  —  listen  to  me.  What  do  you  s'pose 
is  goin'  to  happen  ?  Oh,  they  can't  none  of 
you  guess.  So  look.  Look  !" 

Then  I  threw  open  the  dining-room  door  and 
let  'em  in  —  Hettie  and  Amos,  with  Doctor 
June.  And  patterns  and  recipes  and  lotions  all 
just  simmered  down  into  one  surprised  and 
glad  and  loving  buzz  of  wonder.  And  then 
Hettie  and  Amos  were  married,  and  the  world 
begun  all  over  again,  Garden  of  Eden  style. 

There  is  one  little  thing  more  to  tell.  When 
the  congratulations  was  most  over,  the  dining-' 


182  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

room  door  creaked  a  little  bit,  and  Amos,  that 
was  standing  by  it,  whirled  around  and  see  Mis' 
Fire  Chief  Merriman  peeking  through  the  crack 
to  her  guests.  And  Amos  swung  open  the  door 
wide,  and  he  grabbed  her  by  the  arm,  and  though 
she  hung  back  with  all  her  strength  Amos  pulled 
her  right  straight  into  the  room  and  kissed  her, 
there  before  them  all. 

"Aunt  Hettie,"  he  says  to  her,  ringing,  "  Uncle 
—  Hettie's  uncle  an'  mine  an'  your  husband,  — 
wouldn't  want  you  stayin'  out  there  in  the 
dinin'-room  to-day  on  account  o'  him  !" 

And  when  we  all  crowded  around  her,  greeting 
her  like  guests  should  greet  a  hostess  and  like 
dear  friends  should  greet  dear  friends,  Mis' 
Fire  Chief  she  wipes  her  eyes,  and  she  left  'em 
shake  her  hands ;  and  though  she  wasn't  all 
converted,  it  was  her  and  not  me  that  ask'  'em 
please  to  walk  out  into  the  dining-room  and 
eat  the  lunch  that  was  part  wedding  and  part 
in  memory  of  the  Chief. 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS 

I  DONNO  whether  you've  ever  lived  in  a 
town  that's  having  a  boom  ?  That's  being  a 
boom  town,  as  they  call  it  ?  There  ain't  any 
more  boom  to  Friendship  Village  than  there  is 
to  a  robin  building  a  nest.  There  ain't  any 
more  boom  to  Friendship  Village  than  there  is 
to  growth.  We  just  go  along  and  go  along, 
and  behave  ourselves  like  the  year  does  :  Little 
spurt  of  Spring  now  and  then,  when  two-three 
folks  build  new  houses  and  we  get  a  new  side 
walk  or  two  or  buy  a  new  sprinkling  cart. 
Little  dead  time,  here  and  there,  when  the  to 
bacco  or  pickle  factory  closes  down  to  wait  for 
more  to  grow,  and  when  somebody  gets  most 
built  and  boards  up  the  windows  till  something 
else  comes  in  to  go  on  with.  But  most  of  the 
time  Friendship  Village  keeps  on  pretty  even, 
like  the  year,  or  the  potato  patch,  or  any  of 
them  common,  growing  things. 

But  now  over  to  Red  Barns  it  ain't  so.     Red 
Barns  is  eight  miles  away,  and  from  the  begin-  ' 
ning  the  two  towns  sort  of  set  with  their  backs 
to  each  other,  and  each  give  out  promiscuous . 

183 


1 84  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

that  the  other  didn't  have  a  future.  But, 
same  time,  the  two  towns  looked  out  of  the 
corners  of  their  eyes  enough  to  set  quite  a  few 
things  going  for  each  other  unconscious  :  Red 
Barns  got  a  new  depot,  and  Friendship  Village 
instantly  petitioned  for  one.  Friendship  Village 
set  aside  a  little  park,  and  Red  Barns  immedi 
ately  appropriated  for  one,  with  a  little  edge 
more  ground.  Red  Barns  got  a  new  post 
office,  and  Friendship  Village  started  out  for  a 
new  library.  And  so  on.  Just  like  a  couple 
of  boys  seeing  which  could  swim  out  farthest. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  Interurban  come 
through  Red  Barns  and  left  Friendship  Village 
setting  quiet  out  in  the  meadows  eight  miles 
from  the  track.  And  of  course  after  that 
Red  Barns  shot  ahead  —  Eppleby  Holcomb 
said  that  on  a  still  night  you  could  hear  Red 
Barns  chuckle.  Pretty  soon  a  little  knitting 
factory  started  up  there,  and  then  a  big  tobacco 
factory.  And  being  as  they  had  three  motion- 
picture  houses  to  our  one,  and  band  concerts 
all  Summer  instead  of  just  through  July,  the 
folks  in  Silas  Sykes's  Friendship  Village  Corn 
Canning  Industry  and  in  Timothy  Toplady's 
Enterprise  Pickle  Manufactory  began  to  want  to 
go  over  to  Red  Barns  to  work.  Two  left  from 
Eppleby  Holcomb's  Dry  Goods  Emporium. 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  185 

Even  the  kitchens  of  the  few  sparse  ones  that 
kept  hired  help  begun  to  suffer.  And  the  men 
begun  to  see  that  what  was  what  had  got  to  be 
helped  to  be  something  else  —  same  as  often 
happens  in  commercial  circles. 

Things  was  about  to  this  degree  when  Spring 
come  on.  I  donno  how  it  is  with  other  people, 
but  with  me  Spring  used  to  be  the  signal  to  run 
as  far  as  I  could  from  the  place  I  was  in,  in  the 
hopes,  I  guess,  of  getting  close  up  to  all  outdoors. 
I  used  to  want  to  run  along  country  paths  all 
squshy  with  water,  and  hang  over  a  fence  to  try 
to  tell  whether  it's  a  little  quail  or  a  big  meadow- 
lark  in  the  sedge ;  I  wanted  to  smell  the  sweet, 
soft-water  smell  that  Spring  rain  has.  I  wanted 
to  watch  the  crust  of  the  earth  move  because 
May  was  coming  up  through  the  mold.  I 
wanted  to  climb  a  tree  and  be  a  bud.  And 
one  morning  I  got  up  early  bent  on  doing  all 
these  things,  and  ended  by  poking  round  my 
garden  with  a  stick  to  see  what  was  coming  up 
—  like  you  do.  It  was  real  early  in  the  morn 
ing —  not  much  after  six  —  and  Outdoors  looked 
surprised  —  you  know  that  surprised  look  of 
early  morning,  as  if  the  day  had  never  thought 
of  being  born  again  till  it  up  and  happened  to 
it  ?  And  I  had  got  to  the  stage  of  hanging  over 
the  alley  fence,  doing  nothing,  when  little  David- 


1 86  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

Beach  come  by.  He  was  eating  a  piece  of  bread, 
and  hurrying. 

"Morning,  David,"  I  sings  out.  "Where's 
your  fish-pole  ?" 

He  stopped  running  and  stopped  biting  and 
looked  up  at  me.  And  then  he  laughed,  sharp 
and  high  up. 

"Fish-pole!"  says  he. 

"Is  it  swimming,  then  ?"  I  says.  And  then  I 
felt  sick  all  over.  For  I  remembered  that  David 
had  gone  to  work  in  Silas  Sykes's  canning  factory. 

"Oh,  David,"  I  patched  it  up.  "I  forgot. 
You're  a  man  now." 

At  that  he  put  back  his  thin  little  shoulders, 
and  stuck  out  his  thin  little  chest,  and  held  up 
his  sharp  little  chin.  And  he  said : 

"Yup.  I'm  a  man  now.  I  get  $2.50  a 
week,  now" 

"Whew  !"  says  I.  "When  do  you  bank  your 
first  million  ?" 

He  grinned  and  broke  into  a  run  again.  "I'm 
docked  if  I'm  late,"  he  shouts  back. 

I  looked  after  him.  It  didn't  seem  ten  days 
since  he  was  born.  And  here  he  was,  of  the 
general  contour  of  a  clay  pipe,  going  to  work. 
His  father  had  been  crippled  in  the  factory,  his 
mother  was  half  sick,  and  there  were  three 
younger  than  David,  and  one  older. 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  187 

"Kind  of  nice  of  Silas  to  give  David  a  job," 
I  thought.  "I  don't  suppose  he's  worth  much 
to  him,  he's  so  little." 

And  that  was  all  I  thought,  being  that  most 
of  us  uses  our  heads  far  more  frequent  to  put 
hats  on  than  for  any  other  purpose. 
»  Right  after  breakfast  that  morning  I  took  a 
walk  down  town  to  pick  out  my  vegetables 
before  the  flies  done  'em  too  much  violence  in 
Silas  Sykes's  store  window.  And  out  in  front 
of  the  store,  I  come  on  Silas  himself,  sprinkling 
his  wilted  lettuce. 

The  minute  I  see  Silas,  I  knew  that  something 
had  happened  to  make  him  pleased  with  himself. 
Not  that  Silas  ain't  always  pleased  with  him 
self.  But  that  day  he  looked  extra-special  self- 
pleased. 

"Hello,  Calliope,"  he  says,  "you're  the  very 
one  I  want  to  help  me." 

That  surprised  me,  but,  thinks  I,  I've 
asked  Silas  to  do  so  many  things  he  ain't 
done  that  I've  kind  of  wore  grooves  in  the  at 
mosphere  all  around  him ;  and  I  guess  he's 
took  to  asking  me  first  when  he  sees  me,  for 
fear  I'll  come  down  on  to  him  with  another 
request.  So  I  followed  him  into  the  post-office 
store  where  he  motioned  me  with  his  chin,  and 
this  was  what  he  says  : 


i88  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Calliope,"  says  he,  "how'd  you  like  to  help 
me  do  a  little  work  for  this  town  ?" 

I  must  just  of  stared  at  Silas.  I  can  keep 
from  looking  surprised,  same  as  the  best,  when 
a  neighbor  comes  down  on  to  me,  with  her  eye 
brows  up  over  a  piece  of  news  —  and  I  always 
do,  for  I  do  hate  to  be  expected  to  play  up  to 
other  folks's  startled  eyebrows.  But  with  these 
words  of  Silas's  I  give  in  and  stared.  For  of 
some  eight,  nine,  ten  plans  that  I'd  approached 
him  with  to  the  same  end,  he  had  turned  down 
all  them,  and  all  me. 

"With  who?"  says  I. 

"For  who?"  says  he.  "Woman,  do  you 
realize  that  taking  'em  all  together,  store  and 
canning  factory  combined,  I've  got  forty-two 
folks  a-working  for  me  ?" 

"Well !"  says  I.     "Quite  a  family." 

"Timothy  Toplady's  got  twelve  employees," 
he  goes  on,  "and  Eppleby's  got  seven  in  the 
store.  That's  sixty-one  girls  and  women  and 
then  ...  er  ..." 

"Children,"  says  I,  simple. 

"Young  folks,"  Silas  says,  smooth.  "Sixty- 
one  of  'em.  Ain't  that  pretty  near  a  club,  I'd 
like  to  know  ? " 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "a  club.  A  club!  And  do 
them  sixty-one  want  to  be  a  club,  Silas  ?" 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  189 

Silas  scowled.  "What  you  talking  ?"  he 
says.  "Of  course  they  want  all  you'll  do  for  'em. 
Well,  now :  Us  men  has  been  facing  this  thing, 
and  it's  so  plain  that  even  a  woman  must  see 
it :  Friendship  Village  is  going  to  empty  itself 
out  into  Red  Barns,  same  as  a  skin,  if  this  town 
don't  get  up  and  do  something." 

"True,"  says  I,  attentive.  "Even  a  woman 
can  take  in  that  much,  Silas,  if  you  put  it  right 
before  her,  and  lead  her  up  to  it,  and  point  it 
out  to  her  and,"  says  I,  warming  up  to  it,  "put 
blinders  on  her  so's  not  to  distract  her  attention 
from  the  real  fact  in  hand." 

"What  you  talking?"  says  Silas.  "I  never 
saw  a  woman  yet  that  could  keep  on  any  one 
subject  no  more  than  a  balloon.  Well,  now, 
what  I  thought  was  this  :  I  thought  I'd 
up  and  go  around  with  a  paper,  and  see  how 
much  everybody'd  give,  and  we'd  open  an 
Evening  Club  somewheres,  for  the  employees 
—  folks's  old  furniture  and  magazines  and 
books  and  some  games  —  and  give  'em  a  nice 
time.  Here,"  says  Silas,  producing  a  paper 
from  behind  the  cheese,  "I've  gone  into  this 
thing  to  the  tune  of  Fifty  Dollars.  Fifty  Dol 
lars.  And  I  thought,"  says  he  direct,  "that 
you  that's  always  so  interested  in  doing  things 
for  folks,  might  put  your  own  name  down,  anct 


190  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

might  see  some  of  the  other  ladies  too.  And  I 
could  report  it  to  our  Commercial  club  meeting 
next  Friday  night.  After  the  business  session." 

I  looked  at  him,  meditative. 

"If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  Silas,"  I  says, 
"I'll  take  this  paper  and  go  round  and  see  some 
of  these  sixty-one  women  and  girls,  instead." 

Silas  kind  of  raised  up  his  whole  face  and  left 
his  chin  hanging,  idle. 

"See  them  women  and  girls  ?"  says  he,  some 
resembling  a  shout.  "What  have  they  got  to 
do  with  it,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "ain't  it  some  their  club  too, 
Silas  ?  I  thought  the  whole  thing  was  on  their 
account." 

Silas  used  his  face  like  he'd  run  a  draw  string 
down  it. 

"Women,"  he  says,  "dum  women.  Their 
minds  ain't  any  more  logical  than  --  than  floor- 
sweepings  with  the  door  open.  Didn't  I  just 
tell  you  that  the  thing  was  going  to  be  done  for 
the  benefit  of  Friendship  Village  and  to  keep 
them  folks  interested  in  it  ?" 

"Well,  but,"  I  says,  "ain't  them  folks  some 
Friendship  Village  too  ? " 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  shouts 
Silas.  "Of  course  they  are.  Of  course  we 
want  to  help  'em.  But  they  ain't  got  anything 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  191 

to  do  with  it.  All  they  got  to  do  with  it  is  to 
be  helped!" 

"Is  it !"  I  says.  "Is  that  all,  Silas  ?"  And 
while  he  was  a-gathering  himself  up  to  reply, 
I  picked  up  the  subscription  paper.  "It  can't 
do  'em  no  harm,"  I  says,  "to  tell  'em  about  this. 
Then  if  any  of  'em  is  thinking  of  leaving,  it  may 
hold  on  to  'em  till  we  get  a  start.  If  it's  all 
the  same  to  you,  I'll  just  run  around  and  see 
'em  to-day.  Mebbe  they  might  help  —  who 
knows  ?" 

"You'll  bawl  the  whole  thing  up,"  says  Silas. 
"I  wish't  I'd  kep'  my  mouth  shut." 

"Well,"  I  says,  "you'd  ought  to  know  by 
this  time  that  I  ain't  any  great  hand  to  do  things 
for  folks,  Silas.  I  like  to  do  'em  with  'em." 

Silas  was  starting  in  to  wave  both  arms  when 
somebody  come  in  for  black  molasses.  And 
he  says  to  me : 

"Well,  go  on  ahead.  You'll  roon  my  whole 
idea  —  but  go  on  ahead  and  see  how  little  hurt 
you  can  do.  I've  got  to  have  some  lady-help 
from  somewheres,"  says  he,  frank. 

"Lady-help,"  thinks  I,  a-proceeding  down  the 
street.  "Lady-help.  That's  me.  Kind  of 
auxiliarating  around.  A  member  of  the  Gen 
eral  Ladies'  Aid  Society.  Lady-help.  Ain't 
it  a  grand  feeling  ?" 


192  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

I  went  straight  to  Abigail  Arnold  that  keeps 
the  Home  Bakery.  Abigail  lives  in  the  Bakery, 
and  I  donno  a  nicer,  homier  place  in  town. 
She  didn't  make  the  mistake  of  putting  up  lace 
curtains  in  the  store,  to  catch  the  dust.  ...  I 
always  wonder  when  the  time'll  come  that 
we'll  be  content  not  to  have  any  curtains 
to  any  windows  in  the  living  rooms  of  this 
earth,  but  just  to  let  the  boughs  and  the 
sun  and  the  day  smile  in  on  us,  like  loving  faces. 
Fade  things  ?  Fade  'em  ?  I  wonder  they  didn't 
think  of  that  when  they  made  the  sun,  and  tem 
per  it  down  to  keep  the  carpets  good.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  dream  of  a  house  on  a  hill,  with 
meadows  of  grass  and  the  line  of  the  sky  and 
the  all-day  sun  for  neighbors,  and  not  a  thing 
to  say  to  'em:  "Keep  out.  You'll  fade  me." 
But,  "Come  in.  You'll  feed  me." 

Well,  Abigail  Arnold  was  making  her  home 
made  doughnuts  that  morning,  and  the  whole 
place  smelled  like  when  you  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  struck  the  back  stoop,  running,  about 
the  time  the  colander  was  set  on  the  wing  of  the 
stove,  heaped  up  with  brown,  sizzling,  doughnut- 
smelling  doughnuts. 

"Set  right  down,"  she  says,  "and  have  one." 
And  so  I  done.  And  for  a  few  minutes  Silas  and 
Red  Barns  and  Friendship  Village  and  the  indus- 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  193 

trial  and  social  relations  of  the  entire  country 
slipped  away  and  was  sunk  in  that  nice-tasting, 
crumpy  cake.  Ain't  it  wonderful  —  well,  we'd 
ought  not  to  bother  to  go  off  into  that ;  but  some 
times  I  could  draw  near  to  the  whole  human  race 
just  thinking  how  every  one  of  us  loves  a  fresh 
doughnut,  et  in  somebody's  kitchen.  It's  a 
sign  and  symbol  of  how  alike  we  are  —  and  I 
donno  but  it  means  something,  something  big. 

But  with  the  last  crumb  I  come  back  to  com 
merce. 

"Abigail,"  I  says,  "Silas  wants  to  start  a 
club  for  his  and  Timothy's  and  Eppleby's 
employees." 

"Huh  !"  says  Abigail,  sticking  her  fork  down 
in  the  kettle.  "What's  the  profit?  Ain't  I 
getting  nasty  in  my  old  age  ?"  she  adds  solemn. 
"I  meant,  Go  on.  Tell  me  about  it." 

I  done  so,  winding  up  about  the  meeting  to  be 
held  the  coming  Friday  in  Post-Office  Hall,  at 
which  Silas  was  to  report  on  the  progress  of  the 
club,  after  the  business  session.  And  she  see  it 
like  I  see  it :  That  a  club  laid  on  to  them  sixty- 
one  people  had  got  to  be  managed  awful  wise  — 
or  what  was  to  result  would  be  considerable 
more  like  the  stuff  put  into  milk  to  preserve  it 
than  like  the  good,  rich,  thick  cream  that  milk 
knows  how  to  give,  so  be  you  treat  it  right. 


194  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Abigail  said  she'd  help  —  she's  one  of  them 
new  women  —  oh,  I  ain't  afraid  of  the  word  — 
she's  one  of  them  new  women  that  catches  fire 
at  a  big  thing  to  be  done  in  the  world  just  as  sure 
as  another  kind  of  woman  flares  up  when  her 
poor  little  pride  is  hurt.  I've  seen  'em  both  in 
action,  and  so  have  you.  And  we  made  out  a 
list  —  in  between  doughnuts  —  of  them  sixty- 
one  women  and  girls  and  children  that  was 
working  in  Friendship  Village,  and  we  divided 
up  the  list  according  to  which  of  us  was  best 
friends  with  which  of  'em  —  you  know  that's  a 
sort  of  thing  you  can't  leave  out  in  the  sort  of 
commercial  enterprise  we  was  embarking  on  — 
and  we  agreed  to  start  out  separate,  right  after 
supper,  and  see  what  turned  out  to  be  what. 

I  went  first  to  see  Mary  Beach,  little  David 
Beach's  sister.  They  lived  about  half  a  mile 
from  the  village  on  a  little  triangle  of  land  that 
had  been  sold  off  from  both  sides  and  left  because 
it  was  boggy.  They  had  a  little  drab  house, 
with  thick  lips.  David's  mother  set  outside 
the  door  with  a  big  clothes-basketful  of  leggings 
beside  her.  She  was  a  strong,  straight  creature 
with  a  mass  of  gray  hair,  and  a  way  of  putting 
her  hands  on  her  knees  when  she  talked,  and 
eyes  that  said:  "I  know  and  I  think,"  and  not 
"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,"  like  so  many  eyes  are  built 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  195 

to  represent.  Mary  that  I'd  come  to  see  might 
have  been  a  person  in  a  portrait  —  she  was  that 
kind  of  girl.  And  little  David  was  there,  laying 
sprawled  out  on  the  floor  taking  a  clock  to  pieces 
and  putting  the  items  in  a  pie-tin. 

"You  won't  care,"  says  Mis'  Beach,  "if  I 
keep  on  with  the  leggings  ?" 

"Leggings  ?"  says  I. 

She  nodded  to  the  basket.  "It's  bad  pairs," 
she  said.  "They  leave  me  catch  up  the  dropped 
stitches." 

"How  much  do  they  give  you  ?"  says  I, 
brutal.  If  it  had  been  Silas  Sykes  I'd  never  have 
dreamt  of  asking  him  how  much  anybody  give 
him  for  anything.  But  —  well,  sometimes  we 
hound  folks  and  hang  folks  and  ask  folks  ques 
tions,  merely  because  they're  poor. 

"Six  cents  a  dozen,"  she  says. 

I  remember  they  had  a  fly-paper  on  the  win 
dow  sill,  and  the  caught  flies  and  the  uncaught 
ones  whirred  and  buzzed.  I  can  see  the  room  : 
The  floor  that  sagged,  the  walls  that  cracked, 
the  hot,  nameless  smell  of  it.  And  in  it  a  woman 
with  the  strength  and  the  figure  of  a  race  that 
hasn't  got  here  yet,  and  three  children  —  one  of 
them  beautiful,  and  David,  taking  a  clock  to 
pieces  and  putting  it  together  again,  without 
ever  having  been  taught.  You  know  all  about 


196  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

it  —  and  so  did  I.  And  while  I  set  there  talking 
with  her,  I  couldn't  keep  my  mind  on  anything 
else  but  that  hole  of  a  home,  and  the  three 
splendid  beings  chained  there,  like  folks  in  a  bad 
dream.  Someway  I  never  get  used  to  it,  and 
I  know  I  never  shall.  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
was  looking  on  the  inside  of  a  table  spoon  and 
seeing  things  twisted,  and  saying:  " Already 
such  things  can't  be.  Already  they  sound  old 
and  false  —  like  thumbscrews  !" 

And  the  worst  of  it  was,  David's  mother  was 
so  used  to  it.  She  was  so  bitter  used  to  it. 
And  oh  —  don't  things  turn  round  in  the  world  ? 
A  few  years  before  if  somebody  like  me  had  gone 
to  see  her,  I'd  of  been  telling  her  to  be  resigned, 
and  to  make  the  best  of  her  lot,  and  trying  to 
give  her  to  understand  that  the  Lord  had 
meant  it  personal.  And  instead,  when  she  said 
she  was  doing  nice,  I  longed  to  say  to  her : 

"No,  no,  Mis'  Beach  !  Don't  you  make  that 
mistake.  You  ain't  doing  nice.  As  long  as 
you  think  you  are,  this  world  is  being  held  back. 
It's  you  that's  got  to  help  folks  to  know  that  you 
aren't  doing  nice.  And  to  make  folks  wonder 
why." 

But  I  didn't  say  it  to  her.  I  s'pose  I  haven't 
got  that  far  —  yet. 

She  said  she'd  like  to  come  to  the  club  that 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  197 

Silas  proposed,  and  Mary,  she  said  she'd  come. 
They  didn't  question  much  about  it  —  they 
merely  accepted  it  and  said  they'd  come.  And 
I  went  out  into  the  April  after-supper  light,  with 
a  bird  or  two  twittering  sleepy,  and  an  orange 
and  lemon  and  water-melon  sunset  doing  its 
best  to  attract  my  attention,  and  I  says  out  loud 
to  April  in  general : 

"A  club.  A  club.~~  So  we're  going  to  help 
that  house  with  a  club." 

Then  I  stopped  to  Mis'  Cripps's  boarding 
house.  Mis'  Cripps's  boarding  house  faces  the 
railroad  tracks,  and  I  never  went  by  there  with 
out  seeing  her  milk  bottles  all  set  out  on  her 
porch,  indelicate,  like  some  of  the  kitchen  lining 
showing.  Bettie  Forkaw  and  Libbie  Collins 
and  Rose  Miller  and  Lizzie  Lane,  pickle  factory 
girls,  lived  there.  They  were  all  home,  out  on 
the  smoky  porch,  among  the  milk  bottles, 
laughing  and  talking  and  having  a  grand  time. 
They  had  sleeves  above  their  elbows  and  waists 
turned  in  at  the  throat  with  ruffles  of  cheap 
lace,  and  hair  braided  in  bunches  over  their  ears 
and  dragged  low  on  their  foreheads,  and  they 
had  long,  shiney  beads  round  their  necks,  and 
square,  shiney  buckles  on  their  low  shoes.  Betty 
was  pretty  and  laughed  loud  and  had  uncovered- 
looking  eyes.  Libbie  was  big  and  strong  and 


198  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

still.  Rose  was  thin,  and  she  had  less  blood 
and  more  bones  than  anybody  I  ever  see.  And 
Lizzie  —  Lizzie  might  have  been  a  freshman  in 
any  college  you  might  name.  She'd  have  done 
just  as  good  work  in  figures  as  she  did  in  pickles 

—  only   cucumbers    come   her   way    and    class 
rooms  didn't. 

" Hello,  girls,"  I  says,  "how  are  you  to-night  ? 
Do  you  want  to  be  a  club  ?" 
"To  do  what  ?"  says  they. 
"Have  a  good  time,"  says  I.     "Have  music 

—  eat    a    little    something  —  dance  —  read    a 
little,  maybe.     And  ask  your  friends  there.     A 
club,  you  know." 

After  we'd  talked  it  over,  all  four  of  'em  said 
yes,  they  wished  they  had  some  place  to  go 
evenings  and  wouldn't  it  be  fine  to  have  some 
place  give  to  'em  where  they  could  go.  I  didn't 
discuss  it  over  with  'em  at  all  —  but  I  done  the 
same  thing  I'd  done  before,  and  that  I  cannot  be 
lieve  anybody  has  the  right  to  ask,  no  matter  how 
rich  the  questioner  or  how  poor  the  questionee. 

"Girls,"  I  says,  "you  all  work  for  Silas  Sykes, 
don't  you  ?  How  much  do  you  get  a  week  ?" 

They  told  me  ready  enough  :  Five  and  Six 
Dollars  apiece,  it  was. 

"Gracious,"  I  says,  "how  can  you  use  up  so 
much?"  And  they  laughed  and  thought  it  was 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  199 

a  joke.  And  I  went  along  to  the  next  place  — 
and  my  thoughts  come  slowly  gathering  in  from 
the  edges  of  my  head  and  formed  here  and  there 
in  kind  of  clots,  that  got  acted  on  by  things  I 
begun  to  see  was  happening  in  my  town,  just  as 
casual  as  meat  bills  and  grocery  bills  —  just  as 
casual  as  school  bells  and  church  bells. 

For  the  next  two  days  I  went  to  see  them  on 
my  list.  And  then  nights  I'd  go  back  and  sit  on 
my  porch  and  look  over  to  Red  Barns  that  was 
posting  itself  as  a  nice,  hustling,  up-to-date 
little  town,  with  plenty  of  business  opportunities. 
And  then  I'd  look  up  and  down  Friendship 
Village  that  was  getting  ready  for  its  Business 
meeting  in  Post-Office  Hall  on  Friday  night,  and 
trying  its  best  to  keep  up  with  its  "business 
reputation."  And  then  I'd  go  on  to  some  more 
homes  of  the  workers  that  was  keeping  up  their 
share  in  the  commercial  life  of  Friendship  Village. 
And  then  my  thoughts  would  bring  up  at  Silas's 
club  house,  with  the  necessary  old  furniture  and 
magazines  and  games  laid  out  somewheres, 
tasty.  And  the  little  clots  of  thought  in  my 
brain  somehow  stuck  there.  And  I  couldn't 
think  through  them,  on  to  what  was  what. 

Then  something  happened  that  put  a  little 
window  in  the  side  of  what  was  the  matter  with 
Silas's  plan.  And  I  begun  to  see  light. 


200  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

The  second  night  I  was  sitting  on  my  porch 
when  I  heard  my  back  gate  slam.  My  back 
gate  has  a  chain  for  a  spring,  weighted  with 
a  pail  of  stones,  and  when  it  slams  the  earth 
trembles,  and  I  have  time  to  get  my  hands  out 
of  the  suds  or  dough  or  whatever ;  and  it's  real 
handy  and  practical.  This  time  there  come 
trotting  round  my  house  David  Beach.  My, 
my  but  he  was  a  nice  little  soul.  He  had  bright 
eyes,  that  looked  up  quick  as  a  rabbit's.  And 
a  smile  that  slipped  on  and  off,  swift  as  a  frisking 
squirrel.  And  he  had  little  darting  movements, 
like  a  chipmunk's.  There  was  something  wild 
about  him,  like  the  wind.  Silas's  pickle  factory 
did  seem  a  queer  place  for  us  to  have  put  him. 

"Look,  Miss  Marsh  !"  he  says.  And  he  was 
holding  out  his  clock.  "I  got  it  all  together," 
he  says,  "and  it'll  go.  And  it'll  go  right." 

"Did  you  now  ?"  I  says.  And  it  was  true. 
He  had.  It  did.  That  little  alarm  clock  was 
ticking  away  like  a  jeweller-done  job.  .  .  .  Yes, 
Silas's  pickle  factory  did  seem  a  queer  place  for 
us  to  have  put  him. 

When  the  little  lad  had  gone  off  through  the 
dusk,  with  his  clock  under  his  arm,  I  looked 
down  the  street  after  him.  And  I  thought  of 
this  skill  of  his.  And  then  I  thought  of  the 
$2.50  a  week  Silas  was  giving  him  for  shelling 


THE   BIGGEST  BUSINESS  201 

corn.  And  then  I  thought  of  this  club  that  was 
to  keep  him  and  the  rest  of  'em  contented. 
And  I  begun  to  see,  dim,  just  the  particular 
kinds  of  fools  we  was  making  of  ourselves. 

There  was  yet  one  thing  more  happened  that 
wasn't  so  much  a  window  as  a  door.  The  next 
night  was  to  be  the  Business  Men's  meeting, 
and  just  before  supper  I  went  to  pay  my  last 
visit  on  my  list.  It  was  out  to  the  County 
House  to  see  the  superintendent's  niece  that  had 
just  resigned  from  Eppleby's  store,  and  that 
they  were  afraid  was  going  to  Red  Barns  to 
work. 

The  County  House.  Ain't  that  a  magnificent 
name  ?  Don't  we  love  to  drape  over  our  bones 
and  our  corpses  some  flying  banner  of  a  word 
like  sarcophagus  ?  The  County  House  sets  on  a 
hill.  A  hill  is  a  grand  place  for  a  County  House. 
"Look  at  me,"  the  County  House  can  say, 
"I'm  what  a  beneficent  and  merciful  people  can 
do  for  its  unfit."  And  I  never  go  by  one  that 
I  don't  want  to  shout  back  at  it :  '"Yes.  Look 
at  you.  You're  our  biggest  confession  of  our 
biggest  sham.  What  right  have  we,  in  Nineteen 
Hundred  Anything,  to  have  any  unfit  left  ?" 

Right  in  front  of  the  County  House  is  a  cannon. 
I  never  figured  out  the  fitness  of  having  a  cannon 
there  —  in  fact,  I  never  can  figure  out  the  fitness 


202  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

of  having  a  cannon  anywhere.  But  one  thing 
I've  always  noticed :  When  public  buildings 
and  such  do  have  cannon  out  in  front  of  them, 
they're  always  pointing  away  from  the  house. 
Never  toward  the  house.  Always  going  to 
shoot  somebody  else.  That  don't  seem  to  me 
etiquette.  If  we  must  keep  cannon  for  ornament, 
aren't  we  almost  civilized  enough  to  turn  'em 
around  ? 

Seems  the  superintendent's  niece  wasn't  going 
to  Red  Barns  at  all  —  she'd  merely  resigned  to 
be  married  and  had  gone  to  town  to  buy  things  — 
a  part  of  being  married  which  competes  with  the 
ceremony,  neck  and  neck,  for  importance.  In 
the  passageway,  the  matron  called  me  in  the 
office.  She  was  a  tall,  thick  woman  with  a  way 
of  putting  her  hand  on  your  back  to  marshal 
you,  as  mothers  do  little  children  in  getting  them 
down  an  aisle.  Yes,  she  was  a  marshaling 
woman. 

"Look  here,"  says  the  matron,  proud. 

They'd  put  a  glass  case  up  in  the  office  and 
it  was  all  hung  with  work  —  crocheted  things, 
knit  and  embroidered  things,  fringed  things. 
"Did  by  the  inmates,"  says  she,  proud.  That 
word  "inmates"  is  to  the  word  "people"  what 
the  word  "support"  is  to  the  word  "share." 
It's  a  word  we  could  spare. 


THE   BIGGEST  BUSINESS  203 

I  looked  at  the  things  in  the  case  —  hours  and 
hours  and  hours  the  fingers  of  the  women  up 
stairs  had  worked  on  'em  —  intricate  counting, 
difficult  stitches,  pretty  patterns.  And  each  of 
them  was  marked  with  a  price  tag.  The  County 
House  inmates  had  got  'em  hung  out  there  in  the 
hope  of  earning  a  little  money.  One  was  a 
bed-spread  —  a  whole  crocheted  bed-spread. 
And  one  —  one  was  a  dress  crocheted  from 
collar  to  hem,  and  hung  on  with  all  sorts  of 
crazy  crocheted  ends  and  tassels  so  —  I  knew  — 
to  make  the  job  last  a  little  longer.  And  when 
I  saw  that,  I  grabbed  the  tall,  thick  matron  by 
the  arm  and  I  shook  her  a  little. 

"What  was  we  doing,"  I  says,  "that  these 
folks  wasn't  taught  to  do  some  kind  of  work 
so's  they  could  have  kept  out  of  the  poor 
house?" 

She  looked  at  me  odd  and  cool. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "my  dear  Miss  Marsh, 
it's  being  in  here  that  gives  'em  the  leisure  to 
make  the  things  at  all  !" 

What  was  the  use  of  talking  to  her  ?  And 
besides  being  unreasonable,  she  was  one  of  them 
that  you're  awful  put  to  it  to  keep  from  being 
able  not  to  right  down  dislike.  And  I  went 
along  the  passage  thinking :  "  She  acts  like  the 
way  things  are  is  the  way  things  ought  to  be. 


204  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

But  it  always  seems  to  me  that  the  way  things 
ought  to  be  is  the  best  way  things  could  be.  For 
the  earth  ain't  so  full  of  the  fulness  thereof  but 
that  we  could  all  do  something  to  make  it  a  little 


more  so.53 


And  then  the  thing  happened  that  opened 
the  door  to  all  I'd  been  thinking  about,  and  let 
me  slip  through  inside. 

Being  I  was  there,  I  dropped  in  a  minute  to 
see  old  Grandma  Stuart.  She  was  one  of  the 
eighty  "inmates."  Up  in  the  ward  where  she 
was  sitting,  there  were  twenty  beds.  And 
between  each  two  beds  was  a  shelf  and  a  wash 
basin,  and  over  it  a  hook.  And  old  Grandma 
Stuart  sat  there  by  her  bed  and  her  shelf  and  her 
hook.  She  was  old  and  white,  and  she  had  fine 
wrinkles,  like  a  dead  flower.  She  drew  me  down 
to  her,  with  her  cold  hands. 

"Miss  Marsh,"  she  said,  "I  got  two-three 
things." 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "well,  that's  nice,"  I  says. 
And  wondered  if  that  was  the  right  thing  to  say 
to  her. 

"But  I  ain't  got  any  box,"  she  says.  "They 
keep  the  things  and  bring  'em  to  us  clean  every 
time.  And  I  ain't  got  any  box." 

"That's  so,  you  ain't,"  says  I,  looking  at  her 
shelf. 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  205 

"  I  put  my  things  in  my  dress,"  she  says,  "but 
they  always  fall  out.  And  I've  got  to  stop  to 
pick  'em  up.  And  she  don't  like  it." 

No.  The  matron  wouldn't  like  it.  I  knew 
that.  She  was  one  of  them  that  the  thing  was 
the  thing  even  if  it  was  something  else. 

"And  so  I  thought,"  says  Grandma  Stuart, 
"that  if  I  had  a  pocket,  I  could  put  my  things 
in  that.  I  thought  they  wouldn't  fall  out  if  I 
had  a  pocket.  She  says  she  can't  be  making 
pockets  for  every  one.  But  I  keep  thinking  if 
I  had  a  pocket.  .  .  .  It's  these  things  I've  got," 
she  says. 

She  took  from  her  dress  three  things  :  A  man's 
knife,  a  child's  ring,  and  a  door-key. 

"It  was  the  extry  key  to  my  house,"  she  said. 
"I  —  brought  it  along.  And  I  thought  if  I  had 
a  pocket.  .  .  ." 

...  I  sat  there  with  her  till  the  lights  come 
out.  I  promised  to  come  next  day  and  bring  her 
a  little  calico  pocket.  And  then  I  set  and  let 
her  talk  to  me  —  about  how  things  use'  to  be. 
When  at  last  the  matron  come  to  take  'em  away 
to  be  fed,  I  went  out,  and  I  ran  down  the 
road  in  the  dark.  And  it  was  one  of  the  times 
when  the  world  of  life  is  right  close  up,  and 
you  can  all  but  touch  it,  and  you  can  almost 
hear  what  it  says,  and  you  know  that  it  can  hear 


206  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

you — yes,  and  you  almost  know  that  it's  waiting, 
eager,  to  hear  what  you  are  going  to  say  to  it. 
For  one  force  breathes  through  things,  trying 
to  let  us  know  it's  there.  It  was  speaking  to  me 
through  that  wrecked  home  of  Grandma  Stuart's 
—  through  the  man's  knife,  the  child's  ring,  the 
door-key ;  and  through  the  pitiful,  clever, 
crocheted  stuff  in  the  glass  case  in  the  County 
House ;  and  through  David,  and  through  all 
them  that  we  were  trying  to  fix  up  a  club  for  — • 
like  a  pleasant  plaster  for  something  that 
couldn't  be  touched  by  the  remedy. 

Out  there  in  the  soft  night,  the  world  looked 
different.  I  donno  if  you'll  know  what  I  mean, 
but  it  was  like  the  world  I  knew  had  suddenly 
slipped  inside  another  world  —  like  a  shell ; 
and  the  other  one  was  bigger  and  better  and  cut 
in  a  pattern  that  we  haven't  grown  to  —  yet. 
In  the  west  a  little  new  moon  was  showing  inside 
the  gold  circle  of  the  big  coming  full  moon. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  world  that  I  was 
in  must  be  just  the  little  thin  promise  of  the  world 
that  could  be  —  if  we  knew.  Sometimes  we  do 
know.  Sometimes,  for  just  a  minute,  we  see  it. 
That  night  was  a  night  when  I  know  that  I  saw. 
After  you  see,  you  never  forget. 

"Life  is  something  else  than  what  we  think  it 
is,"  I  says  to  myself  as  I  ran  along  the  road  in  the 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  207 

dark.     "It's   something  better   than   we  think 


it  is." 


As  I  ran,  I  stopped  in  to  Mis'  Beach's  house 
and  asked  for  something.  "Oh,  Mis'  Beach," 
I  says,  "Oh,  David!  Will  you  let  me  take 
something  ?  Will  you  let  me  borrow  the  clock 
you  put  together  without  anybody  telling  you 
how  ?  Just  for  this  evening  ?" 

They  said  they  would  and  they  didn't  question 
that,  particular,  either.  And  I  took  the  clock. 
And  being  David  was  going  for  the  yeast,  he 
came  out  with  me,  and  we  went  on  together. 
He  ran  beside  me,  the  little  lad,  with  his  hand  in 
mine.  And  as  I  ran,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
wasn't  Calliope  Marsh  any  more,  but  that  I  was 
the  immemorial  woman,  running  with  the  im 
memorial  child,  toward  the  hope  of  the  better 
thing,  always  the  better  thing. 

Past  the  Post-Office  Hall  I  went,  already 
lighted  for  the  Business  Meeting,  and  on  to 
Abigail  Arnold's  Home  Bakery. 

Abigail  was  sitting,  dressed  and  ready,  with 
her  list  in  her  hand.  But  when  she  saw  me  she 
burstout  with  some  strange  excitement  in  her  face : 

"Calliope  !"  she  says.  "Silas  has  been  here. 
He  said  you  hadn't  handed  in  your  report. 
I  —  I  don't  think  he  expects  you  to  go  to  the 
meeting.  I  know  he  didn't  expect  me." 


208  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

" Didn't  he  now  ?"  I  says.  "Very  well  then, 
he  didn't.  Are  you  ready  ?" 

"But,  Calliope-    — "  says  she. 

"Are  you  a  business  woman  in  this  town,  or 
are  you  not  ?"  I  asked  her. 

Abigail  has  had  her  Bakery  for  twenty  years 
now,  and  has  paid  off  its  mortgage  that  her 
husband  bequeathed  her. 

"Come,"  says  I.     And  she  did. 

We  went  down  the  street  to  the  Post-Off)  ce 
store  building,  all  lighted  up.  We  went  up  the 
stairs,  and  slipped  into  some  seats  by  the  door. 
I  don't  think  Silas,  the  chairman,  see  us  come  in. 
He  can't  of,  because  he  failed  to  explode.  He 
just  kept  on  conducting  the  meeting  called  to 
consider  the  future  prosperity  of  Friendship 
Village  and  balancing  on  his  toes. 

While  they  talked,  I  set  there,  looking  at 
them.  Sixty  men  or  so  they  were  —  the  men 
that  had  made  Friendship  Village.  Yes,  such 
as  it  was,  these  men  had  made  it.  It  was  Silas 
that  had  built  up  his  business  and  added  to  it, 
till  he  employed  forty- two  folks.  Timothy 
Toplady  had  done  the  same  and  had  encouraged 
three-four  others  to  come  in  to  open  up  new 
things  for  the  town.  It  was  Timothy  stood  back 
of  Zittelhof  when  he  added  furniture  to  his 
undertaking  business,  and  that  started  the  agita- 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  209 

tion  for  the  cheese  factory  out  in  the  hills,  and 
that  got  the  whole  county  excited  about  having 
good  roads.  And  it  was  these  men  and  Eppleby 
Holcomb  and  some  others  that  had  got  the 
new  bridge  and  the  water  works  and  more  than 
these.  And  while  I  set  there  looking  at  them,  it 
come  flooding  over  me  the  skill  and  the  energy 
and  the  patience  and  the  dogged  hard  work  that 
it  had  meant  for  them  sixty  men  to  get  us  where 
we  were,  and  from  my  heart  I  was  thankful  to 
'em.  And  then  I  put  my  mind  on  what  they 
were  a-saying : 

"An  up-to-date,  hustling  little  town,"  I  kept 
hearing.  "The  newer  business  methods." 
"Good  openings."  "Opportunities  for  hustlers." 
"Need  of  live  wires."  "Encourage  industry." 
"Advance  the  town,  advance  the  town,  advance 
the  town."  And  the  thoughts  that  had  been 
formed  in  no  account  clots  in  my  head  suddenly 
took  shape  in  one  thought,  with  the  whole  of 
day-light  turned  on  to  it. 

So,  as  quick  as  the  business  part  seemed  to  me 
to  be  done,  I  rose  up  and  told  Silas  we  had  our 
reports  to  make,  Abigail  and  me,  about  the 
Evening  Club. 

"Well,"  says  Silas,  "this  whole  thing  is  being 
done  irregular.  Most  irregular.  But  you  go  on 
ahead,  and  we'll  be  glad  to  listen  if  you  think 


210  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

you  have  anything  to  say,  bearing  on  to  —  er  — 
what  we're  up  to." 

And  that  was  all  right,  and  I  took  it  so,  because 
it  was  meant  right. 

I  donno  what  there  was  to  be  afraid  of.  All 
of  those  men  we'd  known  for  years.  We'd 
worked  with  'em  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  church 
affairs.  We'd  stood  equal  to  'em  in  school 
affairs,  and  often  agreed  with  'em.  We'd  even 
repeatedly  paid  one  of  'em  our  taxes.  And 
yet  because  it  was  a  Business  Men's  meeting, 
we  felt  kind  of  abashed  or  askant  or  something, 
Abigail  and  me. 

Abigail  reported  first,  about  the  thirty  odd 
she'd  been  to  see.  "But,"  she  winds  up, 
"Calliope's  got  something  to  say  that  I  agree  to, 
over  and  above  the  report.  We've  talked  it  over, 
her  and  me,  and  — "  she  adds  with  her  nice 
dignity, "  as  a  Friendship  Village  business  woman, 
I'm  going  to  leave  her  speak  for  me." 

So  I  said  what  I  had  to  say  about  them  I'd 
been  to  see,  and  what  they  had  said  about  the 
club.  And  then  I  come  to  the  heart  of  it,  and 
I  held  up  David's  little  clock.  I  told  'em  about 
it,  and  about  him.  I  suppose  everybody  else 
has  stories  to  tell  like  David's,  about  the  folks, 
young  or  old,  that  is  living  graves,  little  or  big,  of 
the  kind  of  skill  and  energy  and  patience  that 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  211 

they've  never  had  the  chance  or  the  courage  or 
the  little  will-power  inside  'em  —  to  develop. 
And  there  it  stays  in  'em,  undeveloped,  till  they 
die.  I  believe  it's  truer  of  all  of  us  —  of  you 
and  me  —  than  we've  any  idea  of.  And  this 
is  what  I  tried  to  say  to  'em  that  night,  when 
I  showed  'em  David's  little  clock.  I  didn't 
say  anything  about  the  girls  to  Mis'  Cripps's 
boarding  house  —  I  kept  them,  and  the  rest  of 
'em,  in  my  heart,  along  with  that  crocheted 
dress  up  to  the  County  House,  and  Grandma 
Stuart's  wreck  of  a  home  —  the  man's  knife, 
the  child's  ring,  the  door-key.  And  I 
says : 

"Now,  we've  visited  all  these  folks  that  the 
Evening  Club  was  thought  of  for.  And  we've 
found  most  of  'em  in  favor  of  having  the  club. 
I'm  free  to  confess  that  I  hoped  some  of  'em 
wouldn't  be.  I  hoped  some  of  'em  would  say 
they'd  rather  be  paid  better  wages  than  to  be 
give  a  club.  But  perhaps  it's  all  right.  Mebbe 
the  club  is  one  step  more  we've  got  to  take  before 
we  can  get  down  to  the  big  thing  underneath  it 
all.  But  it  ain't  the  last  step  —  and  I'd  almost 
rather  not  bother  with  it  —  I'd  almost  rather  get 
on  to  the  big  thing  right  away." 

"May  I  ask,"  snaps  out  Silas,  clean  forgetting 
his  chairmanshipping  and  acting  like  he  was 


212  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

talking  to  me  in  the  Post-Office  store  beside  the 
cheese,  "may  I  ask  what  you  mean  by  the  'big 
thing'?" 

"Oh,"  I  says,  "that's  what  I've  been  thinking 
about  while  I  set  here.  Oh,"  I  says,  "you  men 
—  you've  made  the  town.  You've  done  every 
thing  once.  Do  it  again  —  now  when  the  next 
thing  is  here  to  do.  You've  done  your  best  with 
your  own  property  and  your  own  homes.  Now 
do  your  best  with  folks  !" 

"Ain't  that  the  purpose  of  this  here  club 
we're  a-talking  about  ?"  says  Silas.  "Ain't  that 
what  I  been  a-saying  ?  What  do  you  mean  — 
folks  ?"  Silas  winds  up,  irritable.  Silas  knows 
customers,  agents,  correspondents,  partners, 
clients,  colleagues,  opponents,  plaintiffs,  defend 
ants  and  competitors.  But  he  don't  know 
folks. 

"Folks,"  I  says.  "Why,  folks,  Silas.  Why, 
here  in  this  room  with  you  that  we  say  have 
made  Friendship  Village,  are  setting  them  sixty- 
one  employees  of  yours  that  have  helped  make  it 
too.  And  all  the  tens  that  will  come  afterward, 
and  that  have  come  before  to  help  to  make  the 
village  by  the  work  of  their  hands.  They 
belong  —  they're  the  village.  They're  us.  Oh, 
let's  not  do  things  for  them  —  let's  do  things 
with  them.  Let's  meet  all  together,  employers 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  213 

and  employees,  men  and  women,  and  let's  take 
up  together  the  job  of  being  a  town.  Let's 
not  any  of  us  have  more  than  our  share,  and  then 
deal  out  little  clubs,  and  old  furniture,  and 
magazines,  and  games  to  the  rest  of  us.  You 
men  are  finding  out  that  all  your  old  catch  words 
about  advancing  the  town  and  making  business 
opportunities,  have  got  something  lacking  in  them, 
after  all.  And  us  women  are  beginning  to  see 
that  twenty  houses  to  a  block,  each  keeping 
clean  and  orderly  and  planted  on  its  own  hook, 
each  handing  out  old  clothes  and  toys  down  to  the 
Flats,  each  living  its  own  life  of  cleanliness  and 
home  and  victual-giving-at-Christmas,  that  that 
ain't  being  a  town  after  all.  It  isn't  enough. 
Oh,  deep  inside  us  all  ain't  there  something  that 
says,  I  ain't  you,  nor  you,  nor  you,  nor  five 
thousand  of  you.  I'm  all  of  you.  I'm  one. 
'When,'  it  says,  'are  you  going  to  under 
stand,  that  not  till  I  can  act  like  one,  one  united 
one,  can  I  give  any  glimpse  whatever  of  what 
people  might  be  ? '  Don't  let's  us  go  on  ad 
vancing  business  and  multiplying  our  little  clubs 
and  philanthropies.  Instead,  let's  get  together  — 
in  the  kind  of  meetings  they  use'  to  have  in  the 
old  first  days  in  America  —  and  let's  just  talk 
over  the  next  step  in  what's  to  become  of  us. 
Let's  dream  —  real  far.  Let's  dream  farther 


214  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

than  gift-giving  —  and  on  up  to  wages  —  and 
mebbe  a  good  deal  farther  than  that.  Let's 
dream  the  farthest  that  folks  could  go.  .  .  ." 

I  didn't  know  but  they'd  think  I  was  crazy. 
But  I'd  be  glad  to  be  that  kind  of  crazy.  And 
the  glory  is  that  more  folks  and  more  folks  are 
getting  crazy  the  same  way. 

But  they  didn't  think  so  —  I  know  they 
didn't.  Because  when  I  got  through,  they 
clapped  their  hands,  hard  and  hearty  — 
all  but  Silas,  that  don't  think  a  chairman  had 
ought  to  show  any  pleased  emotion.  And 
times  now  when  I'm  lonesome,  I  like  to  re 
member  the  rest  of  the  talk,  and  it  warms  my 
heart  to  remember  it,  and  I  like  to  think  about 
it. 

For  we  give  up  having  the  club.  Nobody 
said  much  of  anything  more  about  it,  after  we 
got  Silas  silenced.  And  this  was  the  notice  we 
put  the  next  night  in  the  Friendship  Evening 
Daily.  Nobody  knows  better  than  I  the  long 
road  that  there  is  to  travel  before  we  can  really 
do  what  we  dreamed  out  a  little  bit  about. 
Nobody  better  than  I  knows  how  slow  it  is 
going  to  be.  But  I  tell  you,  it  is  going  to  be. 
And  the  notice  we  put  in  the  paper  was  the  first 
little  step  we  took.  And  I  believe  that  notice 
holds  the  heart  of  to-day. 


THE  BIGGEST  BUSINESS  215 

It  said : 

"Will  all  them  that's  interested  in  seeing  Friendship 
Village  made  as  much  a  town  as  it  could  be,  for  all  of  us 
and  for  the  children  of  all  of  us,  meet  together  in  Post- 
Office  Hall  to-morrow  night,  at  7  o'clock,  to  talk  over  if 
we're  doing  it  as  good  as  we  could." 

For  there  was  business.  And  then  there  was 
big  business.  But  the  biggest  business  is  taking 
employers  and  employees,  and  all  men  and  women 
—  yes,  and  inmates  too  —  and  turning  them  into 
folks. 


THE  PRODIGAL  GUEST 

AUNT  ELLIS  wrote  to  me : 

"DEAR  CALLIOPE  :  Now  come  and  pay  me  the 
visit.  You've  never  been  here  since  the  time  I 
had  sciatica  and  was  cross.  Come  now,  and  I'll 
try  to  hold  my  temper  and  my  tongue." 

I  wrote  back  to  -her  : 

"I'll  come.  I  was  saving  up  to  buy  a  new 
cook-stove  next  fall,  but  I'll  bring  my  cook-stove 
and  come  in  time  for  the  parade.  I  did  want  to 
see  that." 

She  answered : 

"Mercy,  Calliope,  I  might  have  known  it ! 
You  always  did  love  a  circus  in  the  village,  and 
these  women  are  certainly  making  a  circus 
parade  of  themselves.  However,  we'll  even 
drive  down  to  see  them  do  it,  if  you'll  really 
come.  Now  you  know  how  much  I  want  you." 

"I  might  have  known,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"that  Aunt  Ellis  would  be  like  that.  The  poor 
thing  has  had  such  an  easy  time  that  she  can't 
help  it.  She  thinks  what's  been,  is." 

She  wrote  me  that  she  was  coming  in  from  the 
country  an  hour  after  my  train  got  there,  but 

216 


THE  PRODIGAL  GUEST  217 

that  the  automobile  would  be  there  for  me.  And 
I  wrote  her  that  I  would  come  down  the  plat 
form  with  my  umbrella  up,  so's  her  man  would 
know  me ;  and  so  I  done,  and  he  picked  me  out 
real  ready. 

When  we  got  to  her  big  house,  that  somehow 
looked  so  used  to  being  a  big  house,  there  was  a 
little  boy  sitting  on  the  bottom  step,  half  asleep, 
with  a  big  box. 

"What's  the  matter,  lamb  ?"  I  says. 

"Beg  pad',  ma'am,  he's  likely  waitin'  to  beg," 

says  the  chauf that  word.  "I'd  go  right 

by  if  I  was  you." 

But  the  little  fellow'd  woke  up  and  looked  up. 

"I  can't  find  the  place,"  he  says,  and  stuck 
out  his  big  box.  The  man  looked  at  the  label. 
"They  ain't  no  such  number  in  this  street," 
says  he.  "It's  a  mistake." 

The  little  fellow  kind  of  begun  to  cry,  and  the 
wind  was  blowing  up  real  bitter.  I  made  out 
that  him  and  his  family  made  toys  for  the  up 
town  shops,  and  somebody  in  our  neighborhood 
had  ordered  some  direct,  and  he  was  afraid  to  go 
home  without  the  money.  I  didn't  have  any 
money  to  give  him,  but  I  says  to  the  chauf 

"Ask  him  where  he  lives,  will  you  ?  And  see 
if  we'd  have  time  to  take  him  home  before  Mis' 
Winthrop's  train  gets  in." 


2i8  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

The  chauf done  it,  some  like  a  prime 

minister,  and  he  says,  cold,  he  thought  we'd 
have  time,  and  I  put  the  baby  in  the  car.  He 
was  a  real  sweet  little  fellow,  about  seven.  He 
told  me  his  part  in  making  the  toys,  and  his 
mother's,  and  his  two  little  sisters',  and  I  give 
him  the  rest  o'  my  lunch,  and  he  knew  how  to 
laugh  when  he  got  the  ^chance,  and  we  had 
a  real  happy  time  of  it.  And  we  come  to  his 
home. 

Never,  not  if  I  live  till  after  my  dying  day,  will 
I  forget  the  looks  of  that  back  upstairs  place  he 
called  home,  nor  the  smell  of  it  —  the  smell 
of  it.  The  waxy  woman  that  was  his  mother, 
in  a  red  waist,  and  with  a  big  weight  of  hair, 
had  forgot  how  to  look  surprised  —  that  struck 
me  as  so  awful  —  she'd  forgot  how  to  look  sur 
prised,  just  the  same  as  a  grand  lady  that's 
learned  not  to ;  and  there  was  the  stumpy  man 
that  grunted  for  short  instead  of  bothering  with 
words ;  and  the  two  little  girls  that  might  of 
been  anybody's  —  if  they'd  been  clean  —  one 
of  'em  with  regular  portrait  hair.  I  stayed  a 
minute,  and  give  'em  the  cost  of  about  one 
griddle  of  my  cook-stove,  and  then  I  went  to  the 
station  to  meet  Aunt  Ellis.  And  I  poured  it  all 
out  to  her,  as  soon  as  she'd  give  me  her  cheek  to 
kiss. 


THE  PRODIGAL  GUEST  219 

"So  you  haven't  had  any  tea  !"  she  said,  get 
ting  in  the  automobile.  "I'm  sorry  you've  been 
so  annoyed  the  first  thing."  >, 

"Annoyed  !"  I  says  over.  "Annoyed ! 
Well,  yes,"  I  says,  '"poor  people  is  real  annoying. 
I  wonder  we  have  'em." 

I  was  dying  to  ask  her  about  the  parade,  but 
I  didn't  like  to ;  till  after  we'd  had  dinner  in 
front  of  snow  and  silver  and  sparkles  and  so  on, 
and  had  gone  in  her  parlor-with-another-name, 
and  set  down  in  the  midst  of  flowers  and  shades 
and  lace,  and  rugs  the  color  of  different  kinds 
of  preserves,  and  wood-work  like  the  skin  of  a 
cooked  prune.  Then  I  says  : 

"You  know  I'm  just  dying  to  hear  about  the 
parade." 

She  lifted  her  hand  and  shut  her  eyes,  brief. 

"Calliope,"  she  says,  "I  don't  know  what  has 
come  over  women.  They  seem  to  want  to 
attract  attention  to  themselves.  They  seem  to 
want  to  be  conspicuous  and  talked  about.  They 
seem  to  want " 

"They  want  lots  o'  things,"  says  I,  dry,  "but 
it  ain't  any  of  them,  Aunt  Ellis.  What  time 
does  the  parade  start  ?" 

"You're  bound  to  see  it  ?"  she  says.  "When 
I  think  of  my  dear  Miss  Markham  —  they  used 
to  say  her  school  taught  not  manners,  but  man- 


220  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

ner  —  and  what  she  would  say  to  the  woman 
hood  of  to-day.  .  .  .  We'll  drive  down  if  you 
say  so,  Calliope  —  but  I  don't  know  whether  I 
can  bear  it  long." 

"Manner,"  I  says  over.  "Manner.  That's 
just  what  we're  trying  to  learn  now,  manner  of 
being  alive.  We  haven't  known  very  much 
about  that,  it  seems." 

I  kept  thinking  that  over  next  day  when  we 
were  drawn  up  beside  the  curb  in  the  car,  waiting 
for  them  to  come.  "  We're  trying  to  learn  manner 
at  last  —  the  manner  of  being  alive."  There 
were  lots  of  other  cars,  with  women  so  pretty  you 
felt  like  crying  up  into  the  sky  to  ask  there  if  we 
knew  for  sure  what  all  that  perfection  was  for, 
or  if  there  was  something  else  to  it  we  didn't 
know  —  yet.  And  thousands  of  women  on 
foot,  and  thousands  of  women  in  windows.  .  .  . 
I  looked  at  them  and  wondered  if  they  thought 
we  were,  and  life  was,  as  decent  as  we  and  it  could 
be,  and,  if  not,  how  they  were  preparing  to  help 
change  it.  I  thought  of  the  rest  that  were  up 
town  in  colored  nests,  and  them  that  were  down 
town  in  factories,  and  them  that  were  to  home  in 
the  villages,  and  them  that  were  out  all  along 
the  miles  and  miles  to  the  other  ocean,  just  the 
same  way.  And  here  was  going  to  come  this 
little  line  of  women  walking  along  the  street, 


THE  PRODIGAL  GUEST  221 

a  little  line  of  women  that  thought  they  see 
new  life  for  us  all,  and  see  it  more  abundant. 

"Manner,"  I  says,  "we're  just  beginning  to 
learn  manner." 

Then,  way  down  the  avenue,  they  began  to 
come.  By  ones  and  by  fours  and  by  eights, 
with  colors  and  with  music  and  with  that  that 
was  greater  than  all  of  them  —  the  tramp  and 
tramp  of  feet ;  feet  that  weren't  dancing  to  balls, 
nor  racking  up  and  down  in  shops  buying  pretty 
things  to  make  'em  power,  nor  just  paddling 
around  a  kitchen  the  same  as  mine  had  always 
done  —  but  feet  that  were  marching,  in  a  big, 
peaceful  army,  towards  the  place  where  the  big, 
new  tasks  of  to-morrow  are  going  to  be,  that 
won't  interfere  with  the  best  tasks  of  yester 
day  no  more  than  the  earth's  orbit  interferes  with 
its  whirling  round  and  round. 

"That's  it,"  I  says,  "that's  it!  We've  been 
whirling  round  and  round,  manufacturing  the 
days  and  the  nights,  and  we  never  knew  we  had 
an  orbit  too." 

So  they  come,  till  they  begun  to  pass  where 
we  were  —  some  heads  up,  some  eyes  down, 
women,  women,  marching  to  a  tune  that  was 
being  beat  out  by  thousands  of  hearts  all  over  the 
world.  I'd  never  seen  women  like  this  before. 
I  saw  them  like  I'd  never  seen  them —  I  felt  I  was 


222  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

one  of  'em  like  I'd  never  known  that  either. 
And  I  saw  what  they  saw  and  I  felt  what  they 
felt  more  than  I  ever  knew  I  done. 

Then  I  heard  Aunt  Ellis  making  a  little  noise 
in  her  breath. 

"The  bad  taste  of  it  —  the  bad  taste  of  it, 
Calliope!"  she  said.  "When  I  was  a  girl  we 
used  to  use  the  word  ladylike  —  we  used  to 
strive  to  deserve  it.  It's  a  beautiful  word. 
But  these-  -" 

"We've  been  ladylike,"  says  I,  sad,  "for  five 
or  ten  thousand  years,  and  where  has  it  got  us 
to?" 

"Oh,  but,  Calliope,  they  like  it  —  they  like 
the  publicity  and  the  notoriety  and  the  " 

I  kept  still,  but  I  hurt  all  over  me.  I  can 
stand  anything  only  hearing  that  they  like  it  — 
the  way  Aunt  Ellis  meant.  I  thought  to  myself 
that  I  bet  the  folks  that  used  to  watch  martyrs 
were  heard  to  say  that  martyrs  prob'ly  thought 
flames  was  becoming  or  they  wouldn't  be  burnt. 
But  when  I  looked  at  Aunt  Ellis  sitting  in  her 
car  with  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  it  come  over  me 
all  at  once  the  tragedy  of  it  —  of  all  them  that 
watch  us  cast  their  old  ideals  in  new  forms  — 
their  old  ideals. 

All  of  a  sudden  I  stood  up  in  the  car.  The 
parade  had  got  blocked  for  a  minute,  and  right  in 


THE  PRODIGAL  GUEST  223 

front  of  the  curb  "where  we  stood  I  saw  a  woman  I 
knew ;  a  little  waxy-looking  thing,  that  couldn't 
look  surprised  or  exalted  or  afraid  or  anything 
else,  and  I  knew  her  in  a  minute  —  even  to  the 
red  calico  waist  and  the  big  weight  of  hair,  just  as 
I  had  seen  her  by  the  toy  table  in  her  "home" 
the  night  before.  And  there  she  was,  marching. 
And  here  was  Aunt  Ellis  and  me. 

I  leaned  over  and  touched  Aunt  Ellis. 

"You  mustn't  mind,"  I  says;  "I'm  going 
too." 

She  looked  at  me  like  I'd  turned  into  some 
body  else. 

"I'm  going  out  there,"  I  says,  "with  them. 
I  see  it  like  they  do  —  I  feel  it  like  they  do. 
And  them  that  sees  it  and  feels  it  and  don't  help 
it  along  is  holding  it  back.  I'll  find  my  way 
home.  .  .  ." 

I  ran  to  them.  I  stepped  right  out  in  the  street 
among  them  and  fell  in  step  with  them,  and  then 
I  saw  something.  While  I  was  making  my  way 
through  the  crowd  to  them  the  line  had  passed 
on,  and  them  I  was  with  was  all  in  caps  and 
gowns.  I  stopped  still  in  the  road. 

"Great  land  !"  I  says  to  the  woman  nearest, 
"you're  college,  ain't  you  ?  And  I  never  even 
got  through  high  school." 

She  smiled  and  put  out  her  hand. 


224  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

"Come  on,"  she  says. 

Whatever  happens  to  me  afterward,  I've 
had  that  hour.  No  woman  that  has  ever  had  it 
will  ever  forget  it  —  the  fear  and  the  courage, 
the  pride  and  the  dread,  the  hurt  and  the  power 
and  the  glory.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  the 
way  —  but  what  is  the  way  ?  I  only  know  that 
all  down  the  street,  between  the  rows  of  watching 
faces,  I  could  think  of  that  little  waxy  woman 
going  along  ahead,  and  of  the  kind  of  place  that 
she  called  home,  and  of  the  kind  of  a  life  she 
and  her  children  had.  And  I  knew  then  and  I 
know  now  that  the  poverty  and  the  dirt  and 
some  of  the  death  in  the  world  is  our  job,  it's 
our  job  too.  And  if  they  won't  let  us  do  it 
ladylike,  we'll  do  it  just  plain. 

When  I  got  home,  Aunt  Ellis  was  having  tea. 
She  smiled  at  me  kind  of  sad,  as  a  prodigal  guest 
deserved. 

"Aunt  Ellis,"  I  says,  "I've  give  'em  the  rest 
of  my  cook-stove  money,  except  my  fare  home." 

"My  poor  Calliope,"  she  says,  "that's  just 
the  trouble.  You  all  go  to  such  hysterical  ex 
tremes." 

I'd  heard  that  word  several  times  on  the  street. 
I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 

"Was  that  hysterics  to-day  ?"  I  says.  "I've 
often  wondered  what  they're  like.  I've  never 


THE   PRODIGAL  GUEST  225 

had  the  time  to  have  them,  myself.  Well,"  I 
says,  tired  but  serene,  "if  that  was  hysterics, 
leave  'em  make  the  most  of  it." 

I  looked  at  her,  meditative. 

"Miss  Markham  and  you  and  the  women  that 
marched  to-day  and  me,"  I  says.  "And  a 
hundred  years  from  now  we'll  all  be  conserva 
tives  together.  And  there'll  be  some  big  new 
day  coming  on  that  would  startle  me  now,  just 
the  same  as  it  would  you.  But  the  way  I  feel 
to-night,  honest  —  I  donno  but  I'm  ready  for 
that  one  too." 


MR.  DOMBLEDON 

HE  came  to  my  house  one  afternoon  when  I 
was  just  starting  off  to  get  a-hold  of  two  cakes 
for  the  next  meeting  of  the  Go-lightly  club,  and 
my  mind  was  all  trained  to  a  peak,  capped  with 
the  cakes. 

Says  he :   "Have  you  got  rooms  to  let  ?" 

For  a  minute  I  didn't  answer  him,  I  was  so 
knee  deep  in  looking  at  the  little  boy  he  had  with 
him  —  the  cutest,  lovin'est  little  thing  I'd  ever 
seen.  But  though  I  love  the  human  race  and 
admire  to  see  it  took  care  of,  I  couldn't  sense 
my  way  clear  to  taking  a  boy  into  my  house. 
Boys  belongs  to  the  human  race,  to  be  sure,  just 
as  whirling  egg-beaters  belongs  to  omelettes,  but 
much  as  I  set  store  by  omelettes  I  couldn't  invite 
a  whirling  egg-beater  into  my  home  permanent. 

Says  I:   "Not  to  boys." 

He  laughed  —  kind  of  a  pleasant  laugh, 
fringed  all  round  with  little  laughs. 

"Oh,"  he  says,  "we  ain't  boys." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "one  of  you  is.  And  I  don't 
ever  rent  to  'em.  They  ain't  got  enough  silence 
to  'em,"  I  says,  as  delicate  as  I  could. 

226 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  227 

Just  then  the  little  lad  himself  looked  up 
innocent  and  took  a  hand  without  meaning  to. 

"Is  your  doggy  home  ?"  says  he. 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "curled  up  on  the  back  mat/' 
I  felt  kind  of  glad  I  didn't  have  to  tell  him  I 
didn't  have  one. 

"I'd  like,"  says  he,  grave,  "to  fluffle  it  till 
you're  through." 

"So  do,"  says  I,  hearty,  and  he  trotted  round 
the  house  like  a  little  minister. 

I  kind  o'  tiptoed  after  him,  casual.  All  of  a 
sudden  I  wanted  to  see  what  he  done.  His 
father  come  behind  me  on  the  boards,  and  we 
saw  the  little  fellow  bend  over  and  pat  Mac,  my 
water  spaniel,  as  gentle  as  if  he'd  been  cut  glass. 
The  little  boy  looked  awful  cute,  bending  over, 
his  short  hair  sticking  out  at  the  back.  I  can 
see  him  yet. 

"How  much,"  says  I,  "would  you  want  to 
pay  for  your  room  ?" 

"Well,"  says  his  father,  "not  much.  But  I 
give  a  guess  your  price  is  what  it's  worth  —  no 
more,  no  less." 

I  hadn't  paid  much  attention  to  him  before 
that,  but  I  see  now  he  was  a  wonderful,  nice- 
spoken  little  man,  with  the  kind  of  eyes  that 
look  like  the  sitting-room  —  and  not  like  the 
parlor.  I  can't  bear  parlor  eyes. 


228  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Come  and  look  at  the  room,"  says  I,  and 
rented  it  to  him  out  of  hand.  And  Mr.  Domble- 
don  —  his  name  was  —  and  Donnie  —  that 
was  the  little  fellow  —  went  off  for  their  bag 
gage,  and  I  went  off  for  my  cakes ;  and  what 
they  was  reflecting  on  I  donno,  but  my  own 
reflect  was  that  it's  a  wise  minute  can  tell 
what  the  next  one  is  going  to  pop  open  and  let 
out.  But  I  like  it  that  way.  I'm  a  natural- 
born  vaudevillian.  I  love  to  see  what's  coming 
next. 

Well,  the  next  thing  was,  after  I  got  my  two 
club  cakes  both  provided  for,  that  it  turned  out 
Mr.  Dombledon  was  an  agent,  selling  "  notions, 
knick-knacks  and  anything  o'  that,"  he  told  me ; 
and  he  use'  to  start  out  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  with  his  satchel  in  one  hand  and  his 
little  boy,  more  or  less,  in  the  other. 

"Land,"  says  I  to  him  after  a  few  days, 
"don't  your  little  boy  get  wore  to  the  bone 
tramping  around  with  you  like  that  ?" 

"  Some,"  says  he  ;  "  but  I  carry  him  part  of  the 
way." 

"Carry  him  ?"  says  I,  "and  tote  that  heavy 
knick-knack  notion  satchel  ?" 

"Well,"  says  he,  "I  don't  mind  it.  What 
I'm  always  thinking  is  this :  What  if  I  didn't 
have  him  to  tote." 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  229 

"True  enough,"  says  I,  and  couldn't  say 
another  word. 

But  of  course  the  upstart  and  offshoot  of  that 
was  that  before  the  week  was  out,  I'd  invited 
Mr.  Dombledon  to  leave  the  little  fellow  with 
me,  some  days,  while  he  went  off.  And  he  done 
so,  grateful,  but  making  a  curious  provision. 

"It'd  be  grand  for  him,"  says  he;  "they's 
only  just  one  thing  :  Would  —  would  you  prom 
ise  not  to  leave  him  hear  anybody  say  anything 
anyways  cross  ?" 

"Well,"  says  I,  judicious,  "I  donno's  I'm 
what-you-might-say  cross.  Not  systematic. 
But  —  I  might  be  a  little  crispy." 

"I  ain't  afraid  o'  you,"  says  he,  real  flatter 
ing.  "But  don't  leave  him  hear  anybody  — 
well,  snap  anybody  up." 

"All  right,"  says  I,  "I  won't.  I  like,"  I  says, 
"to  get  out  o'  the  way  of  that  myself." 

"Well,  and  then,"  he  says,  "I  guess  you'll 
think  I'm  real  particular.  But  —  would  you 
promise  not  to  leave  him  go  outside  the  yard  ?" 

"Sure,"  says  I,  "only  when  I'm  with  him." 

"I  guess  you'll  think  I'm  real  particular,"  he 
says  again,  in  his  kind  of  gentle  voice  without  any 
sizin'  to  it,  "but  I  mean  not  even  then.  Days 
when  you're  goin'  out,  I'll  take  him  with  me." 

"Sure,"  says  I,  wondering  all  over  me,  but 


230  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

not  letting  on  all  I  wondered,  like  you  can't  in 
society.  And  I  actually  looked  forward  to 
having  the  little  thing  around  the  house  with  me, 
me  that  has  always  been  down  on  mice,  moths, 
bats  and  boys. 

The  next  thing  was,  Would  he  stay  with  me  ? 
And  looking  to  this  end  I  contrived,  some  skillful, 
to  be  baking  cookies  the  first  morning  his  pa 
went  off.  Mis'  Puppy  had  happened  in  early 
to  get  some  blueing,  and  she  was  sitting  at  one 
end  of  my  cook  table  when  Donnie  came  trotting 
out  with  his  father,  that  always  preferred  the 
back  door.  ("It  feels  more  like  I  lived  here," 
says  he,  wishful,  "if  you  let  me  come  in  the  back 
door."  And  I  was  the  last  one  to  deny  him  that. 
Once  when  I  went  visiting,  I  got  so  homesick  to 
go  in  the  back  door  that  it  was  half  my  reason  for 
leaving  'em.) 

"Now  then,"  I  says  to  the  little  fellow  that 
morning,  "  you  just  set  here  with  us  and  see  me 
make  cookies.  I'll  cut  you  out  a  soldier  cooky," 
says  I. 

"Wiv  buttins?"  he  asks,  and  climbed  up  on 
his  knees  on  a  chair  by  the  table  and  let  his  father 
go  off  without  him,  nice  as  the  nicest.  "I  likes 
'em  wiv  buttins,"  he  says  —  and  Mis'  Puppy 
sort  of  kindled  up  in  her  throat,  like  a  laugh  that 
wants  to  love  somebody. 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  231 

I  donno  as  I  know  how  to  say  it,  but  he  was 
the  kind  of  a  little  chap  that,  when  you're  young, 
you  always  think  your  little  chap  is  going  to  be. 
Then  when  they  do  come,  sometimes  they're 
dear  and  all  that,  but  they  ain't  quite  exactly 
the  way  you  thought  of  them  being  —  though 
you  forget  that  they  ain't,  and  you  forget  every 
thing  but  loving  'em.  But  it  was  like  this  little 
boy  was  the  way  you'd  meant.  It  wasn't  so 
much  the  way  he  looked  —  though  he  was 
beautiful,  beautiful  like  some  of  the  things  you 
think  and  not  like  a  calendar  —  but  it  was  the 
way  he  was,  kind  of  close  up  to  you,  and  his 
breath  coming  past,  and  something  you  couldn't 
name  gentling  round  him.  His  father  hadn't 
been  gone  ten  minutes  when  the  little  thing  let 
me  kiss  him. 

"  'At  was  my  last  one,"  he  explained,  sort  of 
sorry,  to  Mis'  Puppy.  "But  you  can  have  a 
bite  off  my  soldier.  That's  a  better  kiss." 

Mis'  Puppy  watched  him  for  a  while  —  he 
was  sitting  close  down  by  the  oven  door  to  hear 
his  soldier  say  Hurrah  the  minute  he  was  baked, 
if  you  please  —  and  she  kind  of  moved  like  her 
thoughts  scraped  by  each  other,  and  she  says 
—  and  spells  one  word  of  it  out : 

"Where  do  you  s'pose  his  m-o-t-h-e-r  is  ?" 

"My  land,  d-e-d,"   I   answers,  "or  she'd  be 


232  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

setting  over  there  kissing  the  back  of  his  neck  in 
the  hollow." 

"I've  got,"  says  Mis'  Puppy,  "kind  of  an 
idea  she  ain't.  Your  boarder,"  she  says,  "  don't 
look  to  me  real  what  you  might  call  a  widower. 
He  ain't  the  air  of  one  that's  had  things  ciphered 
out  for  him,"  says  she.  "It's  more  like  he  was 
still  a-browsing  round  the  back  o'  the  book  for 
the  answer." 

And  that  was  true,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it ;  he  did  seem  sort  of  quick-moved  and  hope 
ful,  more  like  when  you  sit  down  to  the  table 
than  when  you  shove  back. 

I  told  Mis'  Puppy,  private*,  what  his  father  had 
said  to  me  about  his  not  hearing  anything  spoke 
cross ;  and  she  nodded,  like  it  was  something 
she'd  got  all  thought  out,  with  tags  on. 

"I  was  a-wondering  the  other  day,"  she  says, 
dreamy,  "what  I'd  of  been  like  if  nobody  had 
ever  yipped  out  at  me.  I  s'pose  none  of  us 
knows." 

"Likewise,"  says  I,  "what  we'd  be  like  if 
we'd  never  yipped  out  to  no  one  else." 

"That's  so,"  she  says,  "ain't  it?  The  two 
fits  together  like  a  covered  bake-dish." 

"Ain't  you  'fraid  he'll  shoot  the  oven  door 
down  if  you  don't  let  him  out  pitty  quick?" 
says  Donnie,  trying  to  see  how  near  he  could  get 
his  ear  to  the  crack  to  hear  that  "Hurrah." 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  233 

Four  days  the  little  boy  done  that,  stayed  with 
me  as  contented  as  a  kitten  while  his  father  went 
agenting ;  and  then  the  fifth  day  he  had  to  take 
him  with  him,  because  there  come  on  what  I'd 
been  getting  the  cakes  for  —  the  quarterly 
meeting  of  the  Go-lightly  club. 

The  Go-lightly  club  is  sixteen  Red  Barns  ladies 
—  and  me  —  that's  all  passed  the  sixty-year-old 
mark,  and  has  had  to  begin  to  go  lightly.  We 
picked  the  name  as  being  so  literal,  grievous-true 
as  to  our  powers  and,  same  time,  airy  and  happy 
sounding,  just  like  we  hope  we'll  be  clear  up  to 
the  last  of  the  last  of  us.  We  had  a  funny 
motto  and,  those  days,  it  use'  to  be  a  secret. 
We'd  lit  on  it  when  we  was  first  deciding  to  have 
the  club. 

"What  do  we  want  a  club  for  anyhow?" 
old  Mis'  Lockmeyer  had  said,  that  don't  really 
enjoy  anything  that  she  ain't  kicked  out  at 
first. 

"Why,"  says  little  Mis'  Pettibone,  kind  of 
gentle  and  final,  "just  to  kind  of  make  life  nice." 

"Well,"  says  Mis'  Lockmeyer,  "we  got  to  go 
awful  light  on  it,  our  age." 

And  we  put  both  them  principles  into  our 
constitution : 

"Name:  The  name  of  this  club  shall  be  the  Go-lightly 
club,  account  of  the  character  of  its  members. 


234  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"  Object :  The  object  of  this  club  shall  be  to  make  life 
nice. 

"  No  officers.     No  dues.     No  real  regular  meetings. 
"  Picnic  supper  when  any." 

And  Mis'  Wilme  had  insisted  on  adding : 
"Every-day  clothes  or  not  so  much  so." 

Our  next  meeting  was  going  to  be  at  Mis' 
Elkhorn's  that  lives  out  of  town  about  two  miles 
along  the  old  Tote  road,  and  we  was  looking 
forward  to  it  considerable.  We'd  put  it  off 
several  times ;  one  week  the  ice-cream  sociable 
was  going  to  be,  and  one  week  the  circus  was  to 
the  next  town,  and  so  on  —  we  never  like  to 
interfere  with  any  other  social  going-ons. 

None  of  us  having  a  horse,  we  hired  the  rig  — 
that's  the  three-seat  canopy-top  from  the  livery 
—  and  was  all  drove  out  together  by  Jem  Meddle- 
dipper.  And  it  was  real  nice  and  festive,  with 
our  lunch  baskets  all  piled  up  in  the  back  and, 
as  Mis'  Wilme  put  it :  "Nothing  to  do  till  time 
to  set  the  pan-cakes."  And  when  we  got  outside 
the  City  limits  —  we're  just  a  village,  but  we've 
got  'em  marked  aCity  Limits,"  because  that 
always  seems  the  name  of  'em  —  Mis'  Pettibone, 
that's  a  regular  one  for  entering  into  things  — 
you  know  some  just  is  and  some  just  ain't  and 
the  two  never  change  places  on  no  occasion 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  235 

whatever  —  she  kind  of  pitched  in  and  sung 
in  her  nice  little  voice  that  she  calls  her  sopralto, 
because  it  ain't  placed  much  of  any  place.  She 
happened  on  a  church  piece  —  I  donno  if  you 
know  it  ?  —  the  one  that's  got  a  chorus  that  goes 
first 

"  Lovi  rig-kindness" 

all  wavy,  like  a  little  stream  trickling  along ;  and 
then  another  part  chimes  in, 

"  Loving-kindness  " 

all  wavy,  like  another  little  stream  trickling 
along,  and  then  everybody  clamps  down  on 

"Loving-kindness  —  oh,  how  great !" 

like  the  whole  nice  sweep  of  the  river  ?  Well, 
that  was  the  one  she  sung.  And  being  it's  a 
terrible  catchy  tune,  and  most  of  us  was  brought 
up  on  it  and  has  been  haunted  by  it  for  days 
together  from  bed  to  bed,  we  all  more  or  less 
joined  in  with  what  little  vocal  pans  we  had,  and 
we  sung  it  off  and  on  all  the  way  out. 

We  was  singing  it,  I  recollect,  when  we  come 
in  sight  of  the  Toll  Gate  House.  The  Toll  Gate 
House  has  been  there  for  years,  ever  since  the 
Tote  road  got  made  into  a  real  road,  and  then 
it  got  paid  for,  and  the  toll  part  stopped ;  and 
now  the  City  rents  the  house  —  there's  a  place 


236  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

we  always  say  "City"  again  —  to  most  anybody, 
usually  somebody  poor,  with  a  few  chickens  and 
takes  in  washings  and  ain't  much  of  any  other 
claim  to  being  thought  of,  as  claims  seem  to  go. 

"Who  lives  in  the  Toll  Gate  House  now,  I 
wonder  ?"  says  Mis'  Pettibone,  breaking  off 
her  song. 

"Land,  nobody,"  says  Mis'  Lockmeyer;  "it's 
all  fell  in  on  itself  —  my  land,"  she  says,  "the 
door's  open.  Let's  stop  and  report  'em,  so  be 
it's  been  tramps." 

So  we  made  Jem  Meddledipper  stop,  and  some 
body  was  just  going  to  get  out  when  a  woman 
come  to  the  door. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  with  kind  of  a  pindling 
expression,  looking  as  if  she'd  started  in  good  and 
strong,  but  life  had  kind  of  shaved  her  down  till 
there  wasn't  as  much  left  of  her,  strictly  speak 
ing,  as'd  make  a  regular  person.  A  person,  but 
not  one  that  looks  well  and  happy  the  way 
"person"  means  to  you,  when  you  say  the  word. 
She  had  on  a  what-had-been  navy-blue  what- 
had-been  alpaca,  but  both  them  attributes  had 
got  wore  down  past  the  nap.  A  little  girl  was 
standing  close  beside  her  —  a  nice  little  thing, 
with  her  hair  sticking  up  on  top  like  a  candle- 
flame,  and  tied  with  a  string. 

"My  land,"  says  Mis'  Lockmeyer  right  out, 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  237 

"are  you  livin'  here?"  Mis'  Lockmeyer  is  like 
that  —  she  always  wears  her  face  inside-out 
with  all  the  expression  showing. 

But  the  woman  wasn't  hurt.  She  smiled 
a  little,  and  when  she  smiled  I  thought  she  looked 
real  sweet. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am.  It  —  it  don't  look 
real  like  it,  does  it  ?" 

"Well,"  puts  in  Mis'  Pettibone,  "gettin' 
settled  so " 

"Oh,"  says  the  woman,"!  been  here  a  month." 

And  Mis'  Lockmeyer,  wishing  to  make  amends 
and  pull  her  foot  out,  planted  the  other  right 
along  side  of  it  instead. 

"Do  you  sell  anything  ?  Or  sew  anything  ? 
Or  wash  and  iron  anything  ?"  she  asks. 

And  the  woman  says :  "I  sew  and  wash  and 
iron  anything  I  can  do  home,  with  my  little 
girl.  But  I  ain't  a  thing  in  the  world  to  sell." 

"Of  course  you  ain't,"  says  Mis'  Lockmeyer 
soothing,  and  hoping  to  make  it  better  still. 

"Well,"  says  Mis'  Puppy  hearty,  "I  tell  you 
what.  We'll  be  out  to  see  you  in  a  little  bit, 
if  you  want  us  to." 

My  land,  the  woman's  face  —  I  donno  whether 
you've  ever  seen  anybody's  face  lit  up  from  the 
inside  with  the  light  fair  showing  through  all  the 
pores  like  little  windows  ?  Hers  done  it.  She 


238  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

didn't  say  nothing  —  she  just  done  that.  And 
we  drove  on. 

"Land,"  says  Mis'  Pettibone,  thoughtful, 
"how  like  each  other  folks  are,  no  matter  how 
not-like  they  seem  to  the  folks  you  think  they 
ain't  one  bit  like." 

"Ain't  they  —  ain't  they?"  says  I,  hearty. 
And  I  guess  we  all  felt  the  same. 

Nobody  was  absent  to  the  club  that  after 
noon,  but  Mis'  Elkhorn's  sitting-room  was  big 
enough  so's  we  could  get  in.  None  of  us  could 
bear  a  parlor  club  meeting.  Our  ideas  always 
set  in  our  heads  tp  a  parlor-meeting,  called  to 
order  by  rapping  on  something.  But  here  at 
Mis'  Elkhorn's  we  were  out  in  the  sitting-room, 
with  the  red  table-spread  on  and  the  plants 
growing  and  the  spice-cake  smelling  through  the 
kitchen  door.  And  you'd  think  things  would 
of  gone  as  smooth  as  glass. 

Instead  of  which,  I  donno  what  on  earth  ailed 
us.  But  when  we  got  to  sitting  down,  sewing, 
it  was  like  some  kind  of  little  fine  dislocation 
had  took  place  in  the  air. 

Mis'  Puppy  had  brought  a  centre-piece  to 
work  on,  big  as  a  rug,  all  drawn  work  and  hem 
stitching  and  embroidery.  And  somehow  Mis' 
Pettibone,  that  only  embroiders  useful,  couldn't 
stand  it. 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  239 

"My,  Mis'  Puppy,"  she  says,  "I  shouldn't 
think  you  could  get  a  bit  of  house-work  done, 
making  that  so  lavish." 

Mis'  Puppy  shut  her  lips  so  tight  it  jerked  her 
head. 

'"I  don't  scrub  out  continual,  same  as  some," 
she  says. 

"If  you  mean  me,"  says  Mis'  Pettibone,  tart, 
"I  guess  lean  do  house-work  as  easy  as  the 
most." 

"I  heard  there's  those1  that  can  —  where  it 
don't  show,"  says  Mis'  Puppy,  some  goaded 
beyond  what  she  meant. 

"Mean  to  say?"  snaps  Mis'  Pettibone. 

"Oh,  nothin',"  says  Mis'  Puppy,  "only  to 
them  that  their  backs  the  coat  fits." 

"I  never  was  called  shiftless  since  I  was  born 
a  wife  and  a  house-keeper,"  says  Mis'  Pettibone, 
bordering  on  tearful. 

"Oh,  was  you  born  a  house-keeper,  Mis' 
Pettibone  ? "  says  Mis'  Puppy,  sweet. 

Then  Mis'  Pettibone  went  in  and  set  on  the 
foot  of  the  bed  where  we'd  laid  our  things,  and 
cried ;  and  one  or  two  of  us  went  in  and  sort  o' 
poored  her. 

And,  land,  when  we'd  got  her  to  come  out, 
the  first  thing  we  heard  was  Mis'  Lockmeyer 
pitching  into  Mis'  Wilme. 


24o  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Anybody  that  can  say  I  don't  make  ice 
cream  as  cheap  as  the  best  ain't  any  of  an  ice 
cream  judge,"  she  was  saying  hot,  "be  they  you 
or  be  they  better." 

"I  wasn't  saying  a  word  about  cheap"  says 
Mis'  Wilme,  "I  was  talking  about  good" 

"Well,"  says  Mis'  Lockmeyer,  "I  thought  I 
made  it  good." 

"Not  with  the  little  dab  of  cream  you  was  just 
mentioning,  you  can't,"  says  Mis'  Wilme,  firm. 
"It  ain't  reasonable  nor  chemical." 

"Don't  you  think  your  long  words  is  goin' 
to  impress  me,"  says  Mis'  Lockmeyer,  more  and 
more  het  up. 

"Well,  ladies,"  says  Mis'  Elkhorn,  humorous, 
"nobody  can  make  it  any  colder'n  anybody  else, 
anyhow." 

Somebody  pitched  in  then,  hasty  and  peaceful, 
and  went  to  talking  about  Cemetery ;  and  it 
looked  like  we  was  launched  on  a  real  quiet 
subject. 

"I  guess  we've  all  got  more  friends  up  there 
then  we've  got  in  town,"  says  I.  "When  we  go 
up  there  to  walk  on  Sundays,  I  declare  if  I  had 
to  bow  to  all  the  graves  I  recognize  I'd  be  kep' 
busy." 

"I  know,"  says  Mis'  Wilme,  "when  my  niece 
was  here  from  the  City  she  said  she  had  eighty 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  241 

on  her  calling  list.  'Well/  I  says,  'I've  got 
that  many  if  I  count  the  graves  I  know.' ' 

"Most  of  my  acquaintances,"  says  Mis' 
Lockmeyer,  sighing,  "is  in  their  coffins.  I  says 
to  my  husband  when  I  looked  over  the  Daily 
the  other  night :  That  most  of  the  Local  Items 
and  Supper  Table  Jottings  for  me  now  would 
have  to  be  dated  Cemetery  Lot." 

"I  know,  ladies,"  says  Mis'  Puppy,  dreamy, 
"but  ain't  it  real  aristocratic  to  live  in  a  place 
so  long  that  you  know  all  the  graves.  We  ain't 
got  much  else  to  be  aristocratic  about.  But 
that's  real  like  them  county  families  you  read 
about,"  she  says. 

And  up  flared  Mis'  Pettibone.  "I  donno's 
there's  any  need  to  make  it  so  pointed  to  us  that 
ain't  lived  here  so  very  long,"  she  said,  "and 
that  ain't  any  friends  at  all  in  your  Cemetery." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  Mis'  Puppy,  indulgent,  "of 
course  there's  them  distinctions  in  any  town." 

I  was  just  feeling  thankful  from  my  bones  out 
that  they  hadn't  met  to  my  house,  with  Donnie 
staying  home,  when  Mis'  Elkhorn  come  in  from 
the  kitchen  to  tell  us  supper  was  ready.  And 
when  she  opened  the  door  the  smell  of  hot 
waffles  come  a  dilly-nipping  in,  and  it  made  me 
feel  so  kind  of  cozy  and  busy  and  alive  and  glad 
that  I  burst  right  out : 


242  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

" Shucks,  ladies!"  I  says.  "So  be  we  peck 
around  for  'em  I  bet  we  could  find  things  to  fuss 
over  right  till  the  hearse  backs  up  to  the  door." 

They  all  laughed  a  little  then,  but  that  was 
part  from  feeling  embarrassed  at  going  out  to 
supper,  like  you  always  are.  And  when  we  did 
get  out  there,  everybody  scrabbled  around  to  get 
away  from  whoever  had  just  been  her  enemy. 
We  didn't  say  much  while  we  et--like  you 
don't  in  company ;  and  I  set  there  thinking  : 

"The  Go-lightly  club.  The  Go-lightly  club. 
To  make  life  nice."  And  I  thought  how  we'd 
sung  that  song  of  ours  all  the  way  out.  And  I 
made  up  my  mind  that,  after  supper,  when  they 
was  feeling  limber  from  food,  I'd  try  to  say  some 
thing  about  it. 

But  I  didn't.  I  just  got  started  on  it  —  in 
troduced  by  telling  'em  some  nice  little  things 
about  Donnie's  sayings  and  doings  to  my  house, 
when  Mis'  Lockmeyer  broke  in,  sympathetic. 

"Ain't  he  a  great  care  ?"  says  she. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "he  is.  And  so  is  everything 
on  top  of  this  earth  that's  worth  having.  Life 
thrown  in." 

And  then  I  see  they  was  all  rustling  to  go 
home  —  giving  reasons  of  clothes  to  sprinkle  or 
bread  to  set  or  grandchild  to  put  to  bed  or  plants 
to  cover  up.  So  I  kep'  still,  and  mogged  along 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  243 

home  with  'em.  But  I  did  say  to  Mis'  Pettibone 
on  the  back  seat : 

"We  better  quit  off  club.  If  we  can't  meet 
folks  without  laying  awake  nights  over  the  things 
that's  been  said  to  us,  we  better  never  meet. 
1  To  make  life  nice,'  "  says  I.  "Ain't  club  a 
travnasty,  or  whatever  that  word  is  ?" 

"I  know  it,"  she  says  awful  sober,  and  I  see 
she  was  grieving  some  too.  And  we  was  all 
pretty  still,  going  home.  So  still  that  we  could 
all  hear  Jem  Meddledipper,  that  had  caught  the 
run  o'  that  tune  from  us  in  the  afternoon  and 
was  driving  us  home  by  it,  and  the  wheels  went 
round  to  it  — 

"  Lovin'-kindness  .  .  .  lovin'-kindness  .  .  .  lovin'-kind- 
ness,  oh,  how  great," 

—  and  it  was  sung  considerable  better  than 
any  of  us  had  sung  it. 

But  anyway,  the  result  of  leaving  early  was 
that  we  got  to  the  Toll  Gate  House  before  dark, 
and  I'll  never  forget  the  thing  we  saw.  Standing 
in  the  door  of  the  little  house  was  the  woman 
we'd  spoke  with  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  was 
wearing  the  same  ex-blue  alpaca.  But  now 
she'd  been  and  got  out  from  somewheres  and 
put  on  a  white  straw  hat,  with  little  pink  roses 
all  around  it.  And  like  lightning  I  sensed  that 


244  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

she'd  watched  for  us  to  come  back  and  had  gone 
and  got  the  hat  out  and  put  it  on,  so's  to  let  us 
know  she  had  that  one  decent  thing  to  wear. 

"Jem,"  I  says,  "stop." 

I  donno  rightly  why,  but  I  clambered  down 
out  of  the  rig,  and  I  says  to  the  woman :  "Let 
me  come  in  a  minute  —  can  I  ?  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  —  about  some  sewing,"  says  I, 
that's  sewed  every  rag  I've  had  on  my  back  most 
ever  since  I  was  clothed  in  any.  But  all  of  a 
sudden,  her  getting  out  that  hat  made  me  feel 
I  just  had  to  get  up  close  to  her,  like  you  will. 

But  when  I  stepped  inside,  I  forgot  all  about 
the  sewing. 

"My  land,  my  dear,"  I  says,  or  it  might  have 
been,  "My  dear,  my  land,"  I  was  that  taken- 
back  and  upset,  "you'd  ought  to  have  this 
ceiling  mended." 

For  the  plaster  had  fell  off  full  half  of  it  and 
the  roof  leaked ;  and  there  wasn't  very  much 
of  any  furniture,  to  clap  the  climax. 

"The  City  won't  do  anything,"  says  she. 
"They're  going  to  tear  it  down.  And  the  rent 
ain't  much  —  so  I  want  to  stay." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I'm  going  to  bring  you  out 
some  napkins  to  hem  next  week  —  can  I  ?"  — 
me  having  bought  new  before  then  so's  to  have 
some  work  for  Missionary  Society,  so  why  not 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  245 

now  ?  And  her  face  lit  up  that  same  way  from 
inside. 

When  I'd  got  back  in  the  rig,  and  we'd  drove 
a  little  way  by,  I  spoke  to  the  rest  about  her 
going  and  putting  on  the  hat.  Some  of  'em 
had  sensed  it,  and  some  of  'em  hadn't  —  like 
some  will  and  some  won't  sense  every  created 
thing.  And  when  we  all  did  get  a-hold  of  it  — 
well,  I  can't  hardly  tell  you  what  it  done.  But 
there  was  something  there  in  the  rig  with  us 
that  hadn't  been  there  before,  and  that  come 
with  a  rush  now,  and  that  done  a  thing  to  us  all 
alike.  I  can't  rightly  say  what  it  was,  or  what 
it  done ;  but  I  guess  Mis'  Puppy  come  as  near 
it  as  anybody : 

"Oh,  ladies,"  she  says,  kind  of  hushed,  "don't 
that  seem  like  —  well,  don't  it  make  you  feel  — 
well,  I  donno,  but  ain't  it  just  .  .  ." 

She  kind  of  petered  off,  and  it  was  Mis' 
Pettibone,  her  enemy,  that  answered. 

"Don't  it,  Mis'  Puppy  ?"  she  says,  "Don't  it  ?" 

And  we  all  felt  the  same  way.  Or  similar. 
And  we  never  said  a  word,  but  we  told  each 
other  good  night,  I  noticed,  about  three  times 
apiece,  all  around.  And  out  of  the  fulness  of 
the  lump  in  my  throat,  I  says  : 

"Ladies  !  I  invite  the  Go-lightly  club  to 
meet  with  me  to-morrow  afternoon.  Don't 


246  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

bring  anything  but  sandwiches  and  your  plates 
and  spoons.  I'll  open  the  sauce  and  make  the 
tea  and  whip  up  some  drop  sponge  cakes.  And 
meantime,  let's  us  get  together  everything  we 
can  for  her." 

And  though  hardly  anybody  in  the  village  ever 
goes  to  anything  two  days  in  succession,  they 
all  said  they'd  come. 

By  the  time  they  got  there  next  day  we  had 
carpet  to  sew  out  of  some  of  our  attics,  and  some 
new  sheets  to  make,  and  some  white  muslin 
curtains  out  of  Mis'  Puppy's  back  room.  And 
I  explained  to  them  that  we  couldn't  rightly 
put  it  to  vote  whether  we  should  furnish  up 
the  Toll  Gate  House,  because  we  didn't  have 
any  president  to  put  the  motion,  so  the  only  way 
was  to  go  ahead  anyhow  and  do  it ;  which  we 
done ;  and  which,  if  not  parli-mental,  was 
more  than  any  mental,  because  it  was  out  of  our 
hearts. 

Right  while  we  was  in  the  midst  of  things,  in 
come  my  roomer,  Mr.  Dombledon.  He'd  come 
in  the  back  door,  as  usual,  and  plumped  into 
the  sitting-room  before  he  saw  we  were  there. 
He'd  had  Donnie  with  him  that  day,  because  I 
had  to  be  out  most  of  the  forenoon,  and  I  called 
to  them  to  stop,  because  I  wanted  the  ladies 
should  see  the  little  fellow. 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  247 

Donnie  shook  hands  with  us,  all  around,  like 
a  little  general,  and  then:  " What's  these?" 
says  he,  with  his  hands  on  the  curtains  in  my  lap. 
"A  nighty  for  me  ?" 

"No,  lambin',"  says  I.  "It's  curtains  for 
a  lady." 

"Are  you  that  lady  ?"  he  says. 

"No,  lambin',"  says  I.  "A  lady  that  ain't 
got  any  curtains." 

But  this  he  seemed  to  think  was  awful  funny, 
and  he  laughed  out  —  a  little  boy's  laugh,  and 
kep'  it  up. 

"Ladies  always  has  curtains, "says  he, superior. 

"I  donno,"  says  I.  "I  saw  one  yesterday 
that  didn't  even  have  a  carpet." 

"Where  ?"  asks  Mr.  Dombledon. 

It  kind  of  surprised  me  to  hear  him  speak  up 
—  of  course  I'd  introduced  him  all  around, 
same  as  you  do  roomers  and  even  agents  in  a  little 
town,  where  you  behave  in  general  more  as  if 
folks  were  folks  than  you  do  in  the  City  where 
they  ain't  so  much  folks  as  lawyers,  ladies,  milk 
men,  ministers,  and  so  on.  But  yet  I  hadn't 
really  expected  Mr.  Dombledon  to  volunteer. 

"Down  on  the  Tote  road,"  I  says,  "the  old 
Toll  Gate  House.  You  ain't  familiar  with  it, 
I  guess." 

"Is  this  hers  curtains  ?"  asks  Donnie.     "And 


248  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

can  I  have  some  pink  peaches  sauce  like  in  the 
kitchen  ?" 

"They's  hers  curtains,"  says  I,  "and  if  you'd 
just  as  soon  make  it  plums,  you  shall  have  all 
of  them  in  the  kitchen  that's  good  for  you." 
And  off  he  went  outdoors  making  up  a  song 
about  pink  plums. 

All  of  a  sudden  his  father  spoke  up  again. 

"Do  —  do  you  need  any  more  help  ?"  he  says. 

"Sure  we  do,"  says  I. 

"Well,"  he  says,  gentling  with  the  words  care 
ful,  "I'm  kind  of  sure-moved  with  a  needle." 

"Then,"  says  I,  "mebbe  you'll  needle  this 
carpet  seam  that's  pulling  my  fingers  off  in 
pairs.  We'd  be  grateful,"  says  I,  ready. 

So  down  he  sat  and  begun  to  sew,  and  I  never 
see  handier.  He  whipped  up  the  seam  as  nice 
and  flat  as  a  roller  machine.  And  things  was 
going  along  as  fine  as  salt  and  as  smooth  as 
soap  when  Mis'  Puppy  picked  up  from  the  pile 
of  things  a  red  cotton  table-cover. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "I  donno  where  we  solicited 
this  from,  but  whoever  give  it  shows  their 
bringing  up.  Holes.  And  not  only  holes,  but 
ink.  And  not  only  so,  but  look  there  where 
their  lamp  set.  Would  you  think  anybody  of 
a  donatin'  mind  would  donate  such  a  thing  as 
this?" 


MR.   DOMBLEDON  249 

And  Mis'  Pettibone  spoke  up  sour  and  acid 
and  bitter  in  one  : 

"I  give  that  table-spread,  Mis'  Puppy,"  says 
she.  "And  it  come  off  our  dining-room  table. 
We  don't  throw  things  away  to  our  house  before 
the  new  is  wore  off.  Anything  more  to  say  ?" 

"A  grea'  deal,"  says  Mis'  Puppy,  unflabber- 
gasted,  "but  I'm  too  much  of  a  lady  to  say  it." 

"A  lady  .  .  ."  says  Mis'  Pettibone,  and  done 
a  little  mock-at-her  laugh. 

Quick  as  a  flash,  and  before  anybody  could 
say  a  word  more,  up  hopped  Mr.  Dombledon 
and  got  out  of  the  room.  I  followed  him  out 
on  the  side  porch,  thinking  he  was  took  sick ; 
and  there  he  stood,  staring  off  acrost  my  wood 
lot. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Dombledon  ?"  I  says. 

"Don't  you  mind  me,"  he  says,  "I  got  hit  in 
a  sore  spot.  I  —  guess  I'll  be  stayin'  out  here 
a  little  while." 

Pretty  soon  he  went  out  and  sat  on  the  wood 
pile,  and  I  took  some  supper  out  to  him  on  a 
pie-tin,  and  I  told  him  then  that  we  wanted 
to  have  Donnie  to  the  table  with  us. 

He  looked  up  at  me  kind  of  suffering. 

"I  wouldn't  want  to  refuse  you  anything," 
he  says,  "but  — will  they  say  any  more  things 
like  that?" 


250  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Right  with  the  sweep  of  my  wondering  at 
him,  that  I'd  never  heard  a  man  speak  like  him 
before,  come  a  sweep  of  shame  and  of  grieving 
and  of  being  kind  of  mad,  too. 

"No,  sir,"  says  I.  "We  won't  have  any  more 
of  that.  What's  the  good  o'  being  hostess  if 
you  can't  turn  your  guests  out  of  the  house  ?" 

I  went  back  into  the  house,  and  marched  into 
the  sitting-room.  I  donno  what  I  was  going 
to  say,  but  I  never  had  to  say  it.  For  there  was 
Mis'  Puppy,  wiping  her  eyes  on  the  red  table- 
cover  she'd  scorned,  and  she  was  sitting  on  the 
arm  of  Mis'  Pettibone's  chair. 

"Them  things  hadn't  ought  to  be  said, 
ladies,"  says  she,  as  well  as  she  could.  "I 
can't  take  back  what  I  said  about  the  table- 
cover,  being  it's  what  I  think.  But  I  wish  I'd 
kep'  my  mouth  shut,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows 


it." 


I  thought  then,  and  I  still  think,  it  was  one  of 
the  honestest  and  sweepingest  apologies  I  ever 
heard. 

And  all  at  once  everybody  kind  of  got  up  and 
folded  their  work,  and  patted  somebody  on  the 
elbow;  and  I  see  we  was  feeling  a  good  deal 
the  way  we  had  in  the  rig  the  night  before ;  and 
it  come  to  me,  kind  of  big  and  dim,  that  with 
the  job  we  was  doing,  we  couldn't  possibly  nip 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  251 

out  at  one  another,  like  we  would  in  just  regular 
society.  And  all  I  done  was  to  sing  out,  "Your 
supper's  ready  and  the  toast's  on  the  table." 
And  we  all  went  out,  lion  and  lamb,  and  helped 
to  set  Donnie  up  on  my  ironing-stool  for  a  high 
chair.  And  it  made  an  awful  pleasant  few 
minutes. 

We  met  three  afternoons  all  together  to  sew  for 
the  Toll  Gate  House.  And  when  we  begun  to 
plan  to  take  the  things  to  her,  and  get  the  roof 
mended,  we  realized  we  didn't  know  her 
name. 

"Ain't  that  kind  of  nice  ?"  says  Mis'  Pettibone, 
dreamy.  "And  here  we're  just  as  interested 
in  her  as  if  her  father'd  been  our  butcher,  or 
something  that'd  make  a  real  tie." 

"How  shall  we  give  these  things  to  her?" 
says  Mis'  Puppy.  "Don't  let's  us  let  it  be 
nasty,  same  as  charity  is." 

And  it  was  Mis'  Lockmeyer,  her  of  all  the 
folks  under  the  canopy,  that  set  forward  on  the 
edge  of  her  chair  and  thought  of  the  thing  to  do. 
"  Ladies,"  she  says,  "  there's  one  more  pair  of  cur 
tains  to  hem.  Why  don't  we  get  her  to  one  of  our 
houses  to  hem  'em,  and  make  her  spend  the  day  ? 
And  get  her  roof  fixed  and  her  ceiling  mended 
and  this  truck  in,  and  let  it  all  be  there  when  she 
gets  home  ?" 


252  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

"That's  what  we  will  do,"  says  we,  with  one 
set  of  common  eyebrows  expressing  our  intention. 

We  decided  that  I'd  be  the  one  to  ask  her 
down,  being  I  was  the  one  that  first  went  in 
her  house,  and  similar.  She  said  she'd  come 
ready  enough,  and  bring  the  little  girl ;  and  it 
made  it  real  convenient,  because  Mr.  Dombledon 
had  gone  off  on  one  of  his  two-days  tramps  and 
taken  Donnie  with  him.  And  the  living  minute 
I'd  started  her  in  sewing  on  the  things  we'd 
saved  for  her  to  sew,  and  set  the  little  girl  to 
playing  with  some  of  the  things  I'd  fixed  up 
for  Donnie,  I  was  out  of  the  house  and  making 
for  the  Toll  Gate. 

Land,  land,  the  things  we'd  found  we  could 
spare  and  that  we'd  piled  in  that  house  —  stuff 
that  we  hadn't  known  we  had  and  that  we 
couldn't  miss  if  we'd  tried,  but  had  hung  on  to 
sole  and  only  because  we  were  deformed  into 
economizing  that  way.  Honestly,  I  believe 
more  folks  economizes  by  keeping  old  truck 
around  than  is  extravagant  by  throwing  new 
stuff  away.  I  don't  stand  up  for  either,  but  I 
well  know  which  has  the  most  germs  in.  What 
we'd  sent  we'd  cleaned  thorough.  And  it  was 
clean  as  wax  there  —  but  the  roof  was  being 
mended  and  the  ceiling  was  being  fixed  and 
carpets  were  going  down.  And  when  we  got 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  253 

done  with  it,  I  tell  you  that  little  house  looked 
as  cozy  as  a  Pullman  car  —  and  I  don't  know 
anything  whatever  that  looks  cozier  after  you've 
set  up  in  the  day  coach  all  night.  And  lions 
and  lambs  laying  down  together  on  swords 
and  plow-shares  were  nothing  to  the  way  we 
worked  together  all  day  long.  We  had  to  jump 
to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  being  "been-nice"  to 
so's  to  get  a  chance  to  be  nice  ourselves.  I 
liked  to  be  there.  I  like  to  think  about  it  since. 

At  five  o'clock,  old  Mis'  Lockmeyer,  dead- 
tuckered,  was  standing  in  the  door  with  a  corner 
of  her  apron  caught  up  in  the  band,  when  Jem 
drove  me  away. 

"Leave  her  come  out  any  time  now,"  she  says, 
"we're  ready  for  her.  Mebbe  she'll  be  mad  but, 
land  —  even  if  she  is,  I  can't  be  sorry  we  done  it. 
It's  been  as  enjoyable,"  she  says,  "as  anything 
I've  ever  done." 

I  looked  back  at  her,  and  at  all  the  other 
women  back  of  her  and  in  the  windows,  and  at 
Mis'  Pettibone  and  Mis'  Puppy  leaning  on  the 
same  sill,  and  I  nodded ;  and  Mis'  Puppy  — 
well,  it  was  faint  and  ladylike,  but  just  the 
same  the  look  that  we  give  each  other  was  far, 
far  more  than  a  squint,  and  it  was  bordering  on, 
and  right  up  to,  a  regular  wink. 

When  I  come  in  sight  of  my  house  I  was  so« 


254  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

busy  thinking  how  she'd  like  hers  that  I  didn't 
see  for  a  minute  what  my  front  yard  had  in  it. 
And  when  I  did  see,  my  heart  kind  of  went 
plap  !  —  but  a  pleasant  plap.  My  front  yard 
looked  so  exactly  the  way  I'd  used  to  dream  of  it 
looking,  and  it  never  had.  It  was  little  and  neat 
and  green,  with  flowers  and  a  white  door-step 
as  usual,  but  out  in  front  was  a  little  girl,  with 
my  clothes-rope  doubled  up  for  lines,  and  she  was 
driving  round  and  round  the  pansy  bed  a  little 
boy.  Just  before  I  got  to  the  gate,  and  before 
they  saw  me,  they  dropped  the  rope  and  went  off 
around  the  house  hand  in  hand,  like  they'd 
known  each  other  all  their  days. 

"I  wish  everybody  was  like  that,"  thinks  I, 
and  went  in  my  front  door  and  through  to  the 
dining-room. 

And  there,  sitting  on  my  couch  with  their  arms 
around  each  other,  was  the  Toll  Gate  House  lady 
and  my  roomer,  Mr.  Dombledon. 

"Well,"  says  I.    "Sudden— but  real  friendly  !" 

I  see  I  had  to  say  something,  for  they  didn't 
seem  real  capable  of  it.  And  besides,  I'd  begun 
to  suspicion,  deep  in  the  part  of  the  heart  that 
ain't  never  surprised  at  love  anywheres. 

Mr.  Dombledon  come  over  to  me  — ••  and  now 
his  eyes  were  like  the  sitting-room  with  all  the 
curtains  up. 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  255 

"Oh,  ma'am  !"  he  says,  "how  did  you  know  ? 
How  did  you  find  out  ?" 

"Know  ?"  I  says.  "I  know  less  all  the  time. 
And  I  ain't  found  out  yet.  I'm  a-waiting  for 
you  to  tell  me." 

"We're  each  other's  wife  and  husband,"  says 
he,  neat  but  shy. 

They  told  me  as  well  as  they  could,  now  to 
gether,  now  separate,  now  both  keeping  still. 
I  made  it  out  more  by  means  of  the  air  than  by 
means  of  words,  anyhow.  But  this  thing  that 
he  said  came  home  to  me  then,  and  it's  never 
left  me  since : 

"Nothin'  come  between  us,"  he  says.  "No 
great  trouble  or  sorrow  or  like  that,  same  as 
some.  It  was  just  every  day  that  wore  us  out. 
We  got  to  snappin'  and  snarlin'  —  like  you  do. 
We  done  it  at  everything  —  whenever  either  of 
us  opened  our  heads,  the  other  one  took  'em  up 
on  it.  We  done  it  because  we  was  tired.  And 
we  done  it  because  we  didn't  have  much  to  do 
with  —  nor  no  real  home.  And  we  done  it  for 
no  reason  too,  I  guess  .  .  .  an'  that  come  to 
be  the  oftenest  of  all.  It  got  hold  of  us.  That 
was  what  ailed  me  that  day  at  your  meeting  — 
I'd  always  run  from  it  now  same  as  I  would 
from  the  pest.  It  is  the  pest.  .  .  .  Well, 
finally  I  went  off  with  Donnie  and  left  Pearl^ 


256  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

with  her.  Then  when  I  found  out  she'd  come 
here,  I  come  here  too,  a-purpose.  But  I  couldn't 
go  and  face  her,  even  then.  And  it's  been  six 
months.  And  now  we  both  know." 

I  stood  there  looking  at  those  two  little  people, 
shabby  and  or'nary-seeming ;  and  I  could  have 
said  something  right  past  the  lump  in  my  throat 
if  only  I  could  of  thought  how  to  put  it.  But 
I  couldn't  —  like  you  can't.  Only  —  I  knew. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  I  heard  her  saying.  "Where 
is  he?" 

I  knew  who  she  meant,  and  I  went  and  got 
him.  He  come  running  in  with  his  swing-board 
on  him  for  a  breast-plate.  And  his  mother  never 
said  a  word  —  she  just  gathered  him  up,  swing- 
board  and  all,  and  kissed  him  at  the  back  of  his 
neck,  there  in  the  hollow  that  had  been  a-waiting 
for  her. 

"She  made  me  cookies  wiv  buttins  on  !"  he 
give  out,  for  my  biography.  And  it  was  enough 
for  me. 

Mr.  Dombledon  had  his  little  girl's  hands  in 
his,  swinging  her  arms  back  and  forth,  and  never 
saying  a  word. 

Pretty  soon  I  sent  'em  off  down  the  road, 
Donnie  and  Pearl  ahead,  they  two  behind, 
carrying  my  ex-roomer's  things.  And  I  knew 
how,  at  the  Toll  Gate  House,  everything  was 


MR.  DOMBLEDON  257 

warm  and  bright  and  furnished  and  suppered, 
waiting  for  them.     And  life  was  nice. 

I  went  and  stood  out  on  my  porch,  looking  off 
acrost  my  wood  lot,  thinking.  I  was  thinking 
about  the  two  of  them,  and  about  us  women. 
And  I  knew  I'd  been  showed  the  little  bit  of  an 
edge  to  something  that's  so  small  it  don't  seem 
like  anything,  and  so  sordid  we  won't  any  of  us 
let  on  it  comes  near  us,  and  so  big  it  reaches  all 
over  the  world. 


HUMAN 

PRETTY  soon  the  new-old  Christmas  will  be 
here.  I  donno  but  it's  here  now.  Here  in  the 
village  we've  give  out  time  and  again  that  our 
Christmas  isn't  going  to  be  just  trading  (not 
many  of  us  can  call  it  " shopping"  yet  without 
stopping  to  think,  any  more  than  we  can  say 
"maid"  for  hired  girl,  real  easy)  and  just  an 
exchange  of  useless  gifts.  So  in  the  "new" 
way,  little  by  little  the  old  Christmas  is  being 
uncovered  from  under  the  store-keepers'  Christ 
mas.  Till  at  last  we  shall  have  the  Christmas 
of  the  child  in  the  manger  and  not  of  the  three 
kings. 

And  then  we're  going  to  look  back  on  the 
romance  that  Christmas  had  through  the  long 
time  when  meanings  have  measured  themselves 
commercial.  Just  as  we  look  back  now  on  the 
romance  of  chivalry.  And  we'll  remember  all 
the  kindness  and  the  humor  of  the  time  that'll 
be  outgrown  —  even  though  we  wouldn't  have 
the  time  come  back  when  we  looked  for  Christ 
mas  in  things  —  things  —  things  .  .  .  and  some 
times  found  it  there. 

258 


HUMAN  259 

The  week  before  Christmas,  the  Friendship 
Village  post-office,  near  closing,  is  regular  Bed 
lam.  We  all  stand  in  line,  with  our  presents 
done  up,  while  the  man  at  the  window  weighs 
everybody  else's,  and  we  almost  drop  in  our 
tracks.  And  our  manners,  times  like  this,  is 
that  we  never  get  out  of  our  place  for  no  one. 
Not  for  no  one  !  Only  —  once  we  did. 

Two  nights  before  Christmas  that  year  I  got 
my  next-to-the-last  three  packages  ready  and 
stepped  into  the  post-office  with  'em  about  half- 
past  seven.  And  at  the  post-office  door  I  met 
Mis'  Holcomb-that-was-Mame  Bliss.  She  had 
a  work-bag  and  a  shopping-bag  and  a  suit-case, 
all  of  'em  bulging  full. 

"My  land  !"  I  says,  "you  ain't  going  to  mail 
all  them?" 

"I  am,  too,"  she  says,  "and  I'm  that  thank 
ful  I'm  through,  and  my  back  aches  that  hard, 
I  could  cry.  Twenty-one,"  she  says,  grim, 
"twenty-one  presents  I've  got  made  out  of 
thought  and  elbow  work,  and  mighty  little 
money,  all  ready  to  mail  on  time.  Now,"  says 
she,  "I  can  breathe." 

"Kin  I  carry  your  satchel,  Mis'  Holcomb  ?" 
says  somebody. 

We  looked  down,  and  there's  little  Stubby 
Mosher,  that's  seven,  and  not  much  else  to  say 


260  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

about  him.  He  ain't  no  father,  nor  not  much 
of  any  brother,  except  a  no-account  one  in  the 
city ;  and  his  mother  has  just  been  sent  to  the 
Wooster  Hospital  by  the  Cemetery  Improvement 
Sodality  that  is  extending  our  work  to  include 
the  sick.  We'd  persuaded  her  to  go  there  by 
Stubby's  brother  promising  to  send  him  to  spend 
Christmas  with  her.  And  we  were  all  feeling  real 
tender  toward  Stubby,  because  we'd  just  heard 
that  week  that  she  wasn't  going  to  get  well. 

"Well,  Stubby,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  kind, 
"yes,  I'll  be  obliged  for  a  lift,  if  not  a  lug.  You 
well  ?"  she  asks. 

"Yes'm,"  says  Stubby,  acting  green,  like  a 
boy  will  when  you  ask  after  his  health. 

He  picked  up  her  suit-case  and  moved  over 
toward  the  line.  It  was  an  awful  long  line  that 
night,  that  reached  'way  around  past  the  public 
desk.  In  ahead  of  us  was  'most  everybody  we 
knew  —  Abigail  Arnold  and  Mis'  Merriman  and 
Libby  Liberty  and  old  rich  Mis'  Wiswell  with 
a  bag  of  packages  looking  like  they  might  be 
jewelry,  every  one.  And  every  one  of  them  was 
talking  as  hard  as  they  could  about  the  Christ 
mas  things  they  couldn't  get  done. 

"Might  as  well  settle  down  for  a  good  visit 
while  we're  waiting,"  I  says  to  Mis'  Holcomb, 
and  she  made  her  eyebrows  sympathize. 


HUMAN  261 

No  sooner  was  we  stood  up,  neat  and  in  line, 
than  in  come  three  folks  that  was  total  strangers 
to  me  and  to  the  village  as  well.  One  was  a 
young  girl  around  twenty,  with  eyes  kind  of 
laughing  at  everything,  dressed  in  blue,  with 
ermine  on  her  hat  and  an  ermine  muff  as  big 
as  one  of  my  spare-room  pillows,  and  three  big 
fresh  pink  roses  on  her  coat.  And  one  was  a 
youngish  fellow,  some  older  than  her,  in  a  gray 
cap,  and  having  no  use  of  his  eyes  —  being  they 
were  kept  right  close  on  the  lady  in  blue.  And 
the  other,  I  judged,  was  her  father — a  nice, 
jolly,  private  Santa  Claus,  in  a  fur-lined  coat. 
They  were  in  a  tearing  hurry  to  get  to  the  general- 
delivery  window,  but  when  they  saw  the  line, 
and  how  there  was  only  one  window  for  mail 
and  stamps  and  all,  they  fell  in  behind  us,  as  nice 
as  we  was  ourselves. 

"Let  me  take  you  out  and  you  wait  in  the  car, 
Alison,"  says  the  youngish  man,  anxious. 

"Hadn't  you  better,  dear?"  says  her  father, 
careful. 

"Why,  but  I  love  this  !"  she  says.  "Isn't  it 
quaint?"  And  she  laughed  again. 

Now,  I  hate  that  word  quaint.  So  does  Mis' 
Holcomb.  It  always  sounds  to  us  like  last  year's 
styles.  So  though  her  and  I  had  been  looking 
at  the  three  strangers  —  that  we  saw  were  merely 


262  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

passing  through  in  an  automobile,  like  the  whole 
country  seems  to  —  with  some  interest,  we 
both  turned  our  backs  and  went  on  visiting  and 
listening  to  the  rest. 

"I've  got  three  more  to  get  presents  for,"  says 
Mis'  Merriman  in  that  before-Christmas  con 
versation  that  everybody  takes  a  hand  at,  "and 
what  to  get  them  I  do  not  know.  Don't  you 
ever  get  up  a  stump  about  presents  ?" 

"Stump  !"  says  Libby  Liberty,  "I  live  on  a 
stump  from  the  time  I  start  till  I  stick  on  the 
last  stamp." 

"I've  got  two  more  on  my  list,"  Mis'  Wiswell 
says,  worried,  "and  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  could 
take  another  stitch  nor  buy  another  spoon,  hat 
pin  or  paper-knife.  But  I  know  they'll  send  me 
something,  both  of  them." 

I  stood  looking  at  us,  tired  to  death  with  what 
we'd  been  a-making,  but  sending  'em  off  with 
a  real  lot  of  love  and  satisfaction  wrapped  up 
in  'em,  too.  And  I  thought  how  we  covered  up 
Christmas  so  deep  with  work  that  we  hardly 
ever  had  time  to  get  at  the  real  Christmas  down 
underneath  all  the  stitches.  And  yet,  there  we 
were,  having  dropped  everything  else  that  we 
were  doing,  just  because  it  was  Christmas  week, 
and  coming  from  all  over  town  with  little  things 
we  had  made,  and  standing  there  in  line  to  send 


HUMAN  263 

'em  off  to  folks.  And  I  thought  of  all  the  other 
folks  in  all  the  other  post-offices  in  the  world, 
doing  the  self-same  thing  that  night.  And  I 
felt  all  kind  of  nice  and  glowing  to  think  I  was 
one  of  'em.  Only  I  did  begin  to  wish  we  were 
enough  civilized  to  get  the  glow  some  other 
way. 

'"I  guess  it's  going  to  take  a  long  time,"  says 
Mis'  Holcomb,  patient.  "  Stubby,  you  needn't 
wait  if  you've  anything  else  to  do." 

"Oh,"  says  Stubby,  important,  "I've  got  a 
present  to  mail." 

A  present  to  mail  !  When  Sodality  had  been 
feeding  him  for  five  weeks  among  us  ! 

Mis'  Holcomb  and  I  exchanged  our  next  two 
glances. 

"What  is  it,  Stubby?"  asks  Mis'  Holcomb, 
that  is  some  direct  by  nature  and  never  denies 
herself  at  it. 

He  looked  up  kind  of  „ shy  —  he's  a  nice  little 
boy,  when  anybody  has  any  time  to  pay  any 
attention  to  him. 

"It's  just  this,"  he  said,  and  took  it  out  from 
under  his  coat.  It  was  about  as  big  as  a  candy 
box,  and  he'd  wrapped  it  up  himself,  and  the 
string  was  so  loose  and  the  paper  was  so  tore 
that  they  weren't  going  to  stay  by  each  other 
past  two  stations. 


264  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Mercy  !"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  "leave  me  tie 
it  up  for  you." 

She  took  it.  And  in  order  to  tie  it  she  had 
to  untie  it.  And  when  she  done  that,  what  was 
in  it  come  all  untied.  And  she  see,  and  we  both 
of  us  see,  what  was  in  it.  It  was  a  great  big 
pink  rose,  fresh  and  real,  with  a  lot  of  soaking 
wet  paper  wrapped  round  the  stem. 

"Stubby  Mosher!"  says  Mis'  Holcomb 
straight  out,  "where'd  you  get  this  ?" 

He  colored  up.  "I  bought  it  to  the  green 
house,"  he  says.  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  shovel  paths 
till  the  first  of  March  to  pay  for  it.  And  they 
gimme  one  path  ahead  for  postage." 

"Who  you  sending  it  to?"  says  Mis'  Hol 
comb,  blunt  —  and  I  kind  of  wished  she  wouldn't, 
because  the  folks  right  round  us  was  beginning 
to  listen. 

"To  mother,"  says  Stubby. 

Mis'  Holcomb  near  dropped  the  box.  "My 
land  !"  she  said,  "why  didn't  you  take  it  to  her  ? 
You're  goin'  to-morrow  to  spend  Christmas  with 
her,  ain't  you  ?"  . 

Stubby  shook  his  head  and  swallowed  some. 

"  I  ain't  going,"  he  told  her. 

"Ain't  going!"  Mis'  Holcomb  says.  "Why 
ain't  you  goin',  I'd  like  to  know,  when  you  was 
promised  ?" 


HUMAN  265 

"My  brother  wrote  he  can't,"  said  Stubby. 
"He's  had  some  money  to  pay.  He  can't  send 
me.  I " 

He  stopped,  and  looked  down  on  the  floor  as 
hard  as  ever  he  could,  and  swallowed  like  light 
ning. 

"Well,  but  that's  how  we  got  her  to  go  there," 
Mis'  Holcomb  says.  "We  promised  her  you'd 
come." 

"My  brother  wrote  he  can't."  Stubby  said 
it  over. 

Mis'  Holcomb  looked  at  me  for  justone  minute. 
Then  her  thoughts  took  shape  in  her  head,  and  out. 

"How  much  money  has  Sodality  got  in  the 
treasury  ?"  she  says  to  me. 

"Forty-six  cents,"  says  I,  that's  treasurer 
and  drove  to  death  for  a  fund  for  us. 

"How  much  is  the  fare  to  Wooster  ?" 

"Three  fifty-five  each  way,"  says  Stubby, 
ready,  but  hopeless. 

"My  land  !"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  "they  ain't 
a  woman  in  Sodality  that  can  afford  the  seven 
dollars  —  nor  a  man  in  the  town'll  see  it  like 
we  do.  And  no  time  to  raise  nothing.  And 
that  poor  woman  off  there.  ..." 

She  stared  out  over  the  crowd,  kind  of  wild. 

The  line  was  edging  along  up  to  the  window, 
and  still  talking  about  it. 


266  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

".  .  .  Elsie  and  Mame  that  I  haven't  sent 
a  thing  to,"  Mis'  Merriman  was  saying.  "I  just 
must  get  out  and  find  something  to-morrow,  if 
it  does  get  there  late.  But  I'm  sure  I  donno 
what.  ..." 

"...  disappointed  me  last  minute  on  two 
Irish  crochet  collars,"  Mis'  Wiswell  was  holding 
forth,  in  her  voice  that  talks  like  her  vocal  cords 
had  gone  flat,  same  as  car-wheels. 

"I've  got  company  coming  to-morrow,  and  I 
just  simply  will  have  to  let  both  presents  go,  if  I 
stay  awake  all  night  about  it,  as  stay  awake  I 
s'pose  I  shall." 

Mis'  Holcomb  looked  over  at  me  steady  for 
a  minute,  like  she'd  see  a  thing  she  couldn't 
name.  Then  she  kind  of  give  it  up,  and  went 
on  tying  Stubby's  package.  And  just  then 
she  see  what  he'd  wrote  for  a  Christmas  card. 
It  was  on  a  piece  of  wrapping-paper,  and  it  said  : 

TO  MY  MOTHER 
I   CANT  COM 
MERY  CRISMAS 
STUB 

"Merry  Christmas!"  Mis' Holcomb  says  over 
like  she  hadn't  any  strength.  Then  all  of  a  sud 
den  she  stood  up. 

"Stubby,"  she  says,  "you  run  out  a  minute, 
will  you  ?  You  run  over  to  the  grocery  and 


HUMAN  267 

wait  for  me  there  a  minute  —  quick.  I'll  see 
to  your  package." 

He  went  when  she  said  that. 

And  swift  as  a  flash,  before  I  could  think  at 
all  what  she  meant,  Mis'  Holcomb  laid  Stubby's 
present  down  by  her  suit-case,  and  wheeled 
around  and  whipped  two  packages  out  of  her 
shopping-bag,  and  faced  the  line  of  Friendship 
Village  folks  drawn  up  there  to  the  window, 
taking  their  turns. 

"Everybody!"  she  says,  loud  enough  so's 
they  all  heard  her,  "I've  got  more  Christmas 
presents  than  I  need.  I'll  auction  off  some  of 
'em  —  all  hand-made  —  to  anybody  that's  short 
of  presents.  I'll  show  'em  to  you.  Come  here 
and  look  at  'em,  and  make  a  bid." 

They  looked  at  her  for  a  minute,  perfectly 
blank ;  and  she  was  beginning  to  undo  one  of 
'em.  .  .  .  And  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  see  her 
plan,  what  it  was  ;  and  I  walked  right  over  beside 
of  her. 

"Don't  you  leave  her  undo  'em  !"  I  calls  out. 
"It's  for  Stubby  Mosher,"  I  says,  "that  can't 
go,  after  all,  to  his  mother  in  the  Wooster  Hospi 
tal,  that's  going  to  die  —  count  of  his  brother 
not  sending  him  the  money.  She  can't  get 
well  —  we  know  that  since  last  week.  They's 
only  forty-six  cents  in  Sodality  treasury. 


268  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Let's  us  buy  Mis'  Holcomb's  presents  that 
she's  made  and  is  willing  to  auction  off ! 
Unsight-unseen  let  us  buy  'em  !  I  bid  fifty 


cents.'3 


The  line  had  kind  of  wavered  and  broke,  and 
was  looking  away  from  itself  towards  us.  The 
man  at  the  window  had  stopped  weighing  and 
had  his  head  close  up,  looking  out. 

Everybody  was  hushed  dumb  for  a  minute. 
Then  it  kind  of  got  to  Mis'  Wiswell — that's 
had  so  much  trouble  that  things  'most  always 
get  to  her  easy  —  and  she  says  out : 

"Oh,  land  !  Is  it?  Why,  I  bid  seventy-five 
then." 

"Eighty  !"  says  I,  reckless,  to  egg  her  on. 

Then  Libby  Liberty  kind  of  come  to,  and  bid 
ninety,  though  everybody  knew  the  most  she 
has  is  egg-money  —  and  finally  it,  whatever  it 
was,  went  to  Mis'  Wiswell  for  a  dollar. 

"Is  it  a  present  would  do  for  ladies?"  she 
says,  when  she  made  her  final  bid.f|"I  donno, 
though,  as  that  matters.  One  dollar  !" 

Well,  then  Mis'  Holcomb  up  with  another 
present,  and  Mis'  Merriman  started  that  one, 
and  though  dazed  a  little  yet  —  some  folks 
daze  so  terrible  easy  if  you  go  off  an  inch  from 
their  stamping-ground  !  —  the  rest  of  us,  in 
cluding  Abigail  Arnold  that  hadn't  ought  to 


HUMAN  269 

have  bid  at  all,  got  that  one  up  to  another  dollar, 
and  it  went  to  Mis'  Merriman  for  that.  But 
the  next  package  stuck  at  fifty  cents  —  not 
from  lack  of  willingness,  I  know,  but  from  sheer 
lack  of  ways  —  and  it  was  just  going  at  that 
when  I  whispered  to  Mis'  Holcomb : 

"What's  in  this  one?" 

"Towel  with  crochet  work  set  in  each  end 
and  no  initial,"  she  says. 

"Really  ?"  says  a  voice  behind  me. 

And  there  was  the  young  lady  in  blue,  with 
the  ermine  and  the  roses.  And  I  see  all  of  a 
sudden  that  she  didn't  look  to  be  laughing  at  us 
at  all,  but  her  eyes  were  bright,  and  she  was  kind 
of  flushed  up,  and  it  come  to  me  that  she  would 
have  bidded  before,  only  she  was  sort  of  watch 
ing  us  —  mebbe  because  she  thought  we  were 
quaint.  But  I  didn't  have  time  to  bother  with 
that  thought  much,  not  then. 

"I'll  give  two  dollars  for  that,"  she  says. 

"Done  !"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  real  auctioneer- 
like,  and  with  her  cheeks  red,  and  her  hat  on 
one  ear,  and  her  hand  going  up  and  down. 
"Now  this  one  —  who'll  bid  on  this  one  ?"  says 
she,  putting  up  another.  "How  much  for  this  ? 
How  much " 

"How  much  is  the  fare  to  where  he's  going  ?" 
says  somebody  else  strange,  and  there  was  the1 


270  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

youngish  fellow  speaking,  that  was  with  her 
with  the  roses. 

"  Seven-ten  round  trip  to  Wooster,"  says 
Mis'  Holcomb,  instant. 

"Why,  then,  I  bid  three-ten  for  whatever 
you  have  there,"  he  says  laughing. 

But  Mis'  Holcomb,  instead  of  flaming  up 
because  now  the  whole  money  for  Stubby's 
fare  was  raised,  just  stood  there  looking  at  that 
youngish  man,  mournful  all  over  her  face. 

"It's  a  hand-embroidered  dressing-sack,"  she 
says  melancholy.  "  You  don't  never  want  that ! " 

"Yes  —  yes,  I  do,"  he  says,  still  laughing, 
"yes,  I  do.  It's  a  straight  bid." 

"Oh,  my  land !"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  her 
voice  slipping,  "then  we've  got  it.  We've  got 
it  all  right  here  !" 

But  while  she  was  a-saying  it,  a  big,  deep  voice 
boomed  out  all  over  her  and  the  rest  that  was 
exclaiming. 

"Ticket  to  where  ?"  says  the  private-Santa- 
Claus-looking  man  in  the  fur  coat. 

"Wooster,  this  state,"  says  I,  being  Mis' 
Holcomb  was  almost  speechless. 

"Well,  now,"  says  the  private  Santa  Claus, 
"don't  we  go  pretty  close  to  Wooster  ?  Where's 
that  map  we  wore  out  ?  Well,  I  know  we  go 
pretty  close  to  Wooster.  Why  can't  we  take 


HUMAN  271 

your  Master  Stubby  to  Wooster  in  the  car  ? 
We're  going  on  to-night  —  if  we  ever  get  to 
that  general-delivery  window,"  he  ends  in  a 
growl. 

And  that  was  the  time  the  line  made  way  — 
the  line  that  never  moves  for  no  one.  And 
the  Santa  Claus  man  went  up  and  got  his 
mail. 

And  while  he  was  a-doing  it,  I  run  out  after 
Stubby,  setting  on  a  barrel  in  the  grocery, 
happy  with  three  cranberries  they'd  give  him. 
And  as  I  come  back  in  the  door  with  him,  I  see 
Mis'  Holcomb  just  showing  his  rose  to  the  young 
lady  with  the  ermine  and  the  roses.  And  then 
I  see  for  sure  by  the  young  lady's  eyes  that  she 
wasn't  the  way  I'd  thought  she  was  —  laughing 
at  us.  Why,  her  eyes  were  as  soft  and  under 
standing  as  if  she  didn't  have  a  cent  to  her  name. 
And  I  donno  but  more  so. 

"Oh,  father,"  I  heard  her  say,  "I'm  glad  we 
came  in  for  the  mail  ourselves  !  What  if  we 
hadn't?" 

And  I  concluded  I  didn't  mind  that  word 
quaint  half  as  much  as  I  thought  I  did. 

Every  last  one  of  the  line  went  out  of  the 
post-office  to  see  Stubby  off,  and  the  man  at 
the  window,  he  came  too.  They  had  a  big 
warm  coat  they  put  the  little  boy  into,  and  we 


272  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

wrapped  up  his  rose  and  put  that  in  the  car, 
so's  it  would  get  there  sooner  and  save  the  post 
age,  same  time,  and  they  tucked  him  away  as 
snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug,  his  little  face  just  shining 
out  for  joy. 

"Oh,  and  you  can  buy  your  presents  back 
now,"  says  Libby  Liberty  to  Mis'  Holcomb 
right  in  the  middle  of  it. 

"No,  sir,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  proud.  "A 
bargain  is  a  bargain,  and  I  made  mine."  And 
then  she  thought  of  something.  "Oh,"  she  says, 
leaning  forward  to  the  window  of  the  car, 
"don't  you  want  to  sell  your  presents  back 
again?" 

"No!"  they  all  told  her  together.  "We 
made  a  straight  bid,  you  know." 

"Then,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb,  "let's  us  give 
Stubby  the  money  to  put  in  his  pocket  and  take 
the  one-way  fare  to  his  mother  !" 

And  that  was  what  they  done.  And  the 
big  car  rolled  off  down  Daphne  Street,  with 
Stubby  in  it  going  like  a  king. 

And  when  we  all  got  back  in  the  post-office, 
what  do  you  s'pose  ?  There  was  the  crocheted 
towel  and  the  hand-embroidered  dressing-sack 
slipped  back  all  safe  into  Mis'  Holcomb's 
shopping-bag  ! 

But    she    wouldn't    take    the    other    things 


HUMAN  273 

back  —  she  would  not,  no  matter  what  Mis' 
Wiswell  and  Mis'  Merriman  said. 

"I  can  crochet  a  couple  of  things  to-morrow 
like  lightning,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb.  "You 
don't  want  me  to  be  done  out  of  my  share 
in  Stubby's  Christmas,  do  you  ?"  she  asks 
'em. 

And  we  all  stood  there,  talking  and  laughing 
and  going  over  it  and  clean  forgetting  all  about 
the  United  States  mails,  till  the  man  at  the 
window  called  out : 

"'Leven  minutes  and  a  quarter  before  the 
mail  closes  !" 

We  all  started  back  to  the  window,  but 
nobody  could  remember  just  exactly  where 
anybody  was  standing  before,  and  they  all 
wanted  everybody  to  go  up  first  and  step  in 
ahead  of  them.  And  the  line,  instead  of  being 
a  line  with  some  of  'em  ahead  of  others  and  all 
trying  to  hurry,  was  just  a  little  group,  with  each 
giving  everybody  their  turn,  peaceful  and  good- 
willing.  And  all  of  a  sudden  it  was  like  Christ 
mas  had  come,  up  through  all  the  work  and  the 
stitches,  and  was  right  there  in  the  Friendship 
Village  post-office  with  us. 

"Goodness!"  says  Mis'  Holcomb  in  my 
ear,  "I  was  wore  to  the  bone  getting  ready  my 
Christmas  things.  But  now  I'm  real  rested." 


274  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"So  am  I,"  I  says. 

And  so  was  every  one  of  us,  I  know,  falling 
back  into  line  there  by  the  window.  All  rested, 
and  not  feeling  hurried  nor  nothing :  only 
human. 


THE  HOME-COMING 

"  EIGHTEEN  booths,"  says  Mis'  Timothy  Top- 
lady,  sighing  satisfied.  "That's  enough  to  go 
round  the  wholeMarket  Square,  leaving breathin' 
space  between." 

We  sat  looking  at  the  diagram  Mis'  Fire- 
Chief  Merriman  had  made  on  the  dining-room 
table,  with  bees-wax  and  stuff  out  of  her  work- 
basket,  and  we  all  sighed  satisfied  —  but  tired 
too.  Because,  though  it  looked  like  the  Friend 
ship  Village  Home-coming  was  going  to  be  a 
success  —  and  a  peaceful  success  —  yet  we  see 
in  the  same  flash  that  it  was  going  to  be  an  awful 
back-aching,  feet-burning  business  for  us  ladies. 
We  were  having  our  fourth  committee  meeting 
to  Mis'  Sykes's,  and  we  weren't  more  than  begun 
on  the  thing ;  and  the  Home-coming  was  only 
six  weeks  away. 

"Just  thinking  about  all  the  tracking  round 
it  means,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  "I  can  feel  that  sick 
feeling  in  the  back  of  my  throat  now,  that  I  feel 
when  I'm  over-tired,  or  got  delegates,  or  have 
company  pounce  down  on  me." 

Mis'  Hubbelthwait  looked  at  her  sympa- 

275 


276  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

thetic  "I  know,"  she  says.  "So  tired  you 
can  taste  it.  I  donno,"  she  says,  "whether  home 
comings  are  worth  it  or  not." 

Mis'  Sykes  didn't  answer.  She  was  up  on 
her  feet,  peering  out  behind  the  Nottinghams. 

"My  land  o'  life,"  she  says,  "that's  the 
stalkin'  image  of  'Lisbeth  Note." 

"Lisbeth  Note!"  we  all  said.  "Oh,  it  can't 
be!" 

It  struck  me,  even  then,  how  united  folks  are 
on  a  piece  of  gossip.  For  the  Home-coming 
some  had  thought  have  printed  invitations  and 
some  had  thought  send  out  newspapers,  some 
had  wanted  free  supper  and  some  had  wanted 
pay,  and  so  on,  item  by  item  of  the  afternoon. 
But  the  minute  Lisbeth  Note  was  mentioned, 
we  all  burst  into  one  common,  spontaneous 
fraternal  horror :  "OA,  no.  It  couldn't  be  her." 

"It  is!"  cries  Mis'  Sykes.  "It  is.  She's 
turning  in  there.  I  thought  I  heard  'bus  wheels 
in  the  night.  It  serves  me  right.  I'd  ought  to 
got  out  and  looked." 

We  were  all  crowded  to  the  window  by  then, 
looking  over  toward  old  Mis'  Note's,  that  lived 
opposite  to  Mis'  Sykes's.  So  we  all  saw  what 
we  saw.  And  it  was  that  Mis'  Note's  front 
door  opened  and  a  little  boy,  'bout  four  years 
old,  come  shouting  down  the  walk  toward 


THE  HOME-COMING  277 

Lisbeth.  And  she  stooped  over  and  kissed 
him.  And  they  went  in  the  house  together  and 
shut  the  door. 

Then  us  ladies  turned  and  stared  at  each  other. 
And  Mis'  Sykes  says,  swallowing  unbeknownst 
in  the  middle  of  what  she  says :  "The  brazen 
hussy.  She's  brought  it  back  here." 

I  donno  whether  you've  ever  heard  a  group 
of  immortal  beings,  women  or  men,  pounce  on 
and  mull  over  that  particular  bone  ?  If  you  live 
somewheres  in  this  world,  I  guess  mebbe  you 
hev  —  I  guess  mebbe  you  hev.  I'm  never  where 
it  happens,  that  I  don't  turn  sick  and  faint  all 
through  me.  I  don't  know  how  men  handles 
the  subject  —  here  in  Friendship  Village  we 
don't  mention  things  that  has  a  tang  to  'em,  in 
mixed  company.  Mebbe  men  is  delicate  and 
gentle  and  chivalrous  when  they  speak  of  such 
things.  Mebbe  that's  one  of  the  places  they 
use  the  chivalry  some  feels  so  afraid  is  going 
to  die  out.  But  I  might  as  well  own  up  to  you 
that  in  Friendship  Village  us  women  don't  act 
neither  delicate  nor  decent  in  such  a  case. 

There  was  fourteen  women  in  the  room  that 
day,  every  one  of  'em  except  Abigail  Arnold 
and  me  living  what  you  might  call  "protected" 
lives.  I  mean  by  that  that  men  had  provided 
them  their  homes  and  was  earning  them  their 


278  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

livings,  and  clothing  their  children ;  and  they 
were  caring  for  the  man's  house  and,  in  between, 
training  up  the  children.  Then  we  were  all  of 
us  further  protected  by  the  church,  that  we  all 
belonged  to  and  helped  earn  money  for.  And 
also  we  were  protected  by  the  town,  that  we  were 
all  respectable,  bill-paying,  property-owning,  pew- 
renting  citizens  of.  That  was  us. 

And  over  against  us  fourteen  was  Lisbeth  — 
that  her  father  had  died  when  she  was  a  baby, 
and  her  mother  had  worked  since  she  was  born, 
with  no  place  to  leave  Lisbeth  meantime.  And 
Lisbeth  herself  had  been  a  nice,  sweet-dis- 
positioned,  confiding  little  girl,  doing  odd  jobs  to 
our  houses  and  clerking  in  our  stores  in  the 
Christmas  rush.  Till  five  years  ago  —  she'd 
gone  away.  And  we  all  knew  why.  Her 
mother  had  cried  her  eyes  out  in  most  every  one 
of  our  kitchens,  and  we  were  all  in  full  possession 
of  the  facts  —  unless  you  count  in  the  name  of 
the  little  child's  father.  We  didn't  know  that. 
But  then,  we  had  so  much  to  do  tearing  Lisbeth 
to  pieces  we  didn't  bother  a  great  deal  with  that. 
And  there  that  day  was  the  whole  fourteen  of  us, 
pitching  into  Lisbeth  Note  for  what  she'd  done 
—  just  like  she  was  fourteen  of  herself,  our  own 
sizes  and  our  own  "protectedness,"  and  meet 
ing  us  face  to  face. 


THE  HOME-COMING  279 

"The  idear!"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  shaking  her 
head,  with  her  lips  disappearing  within  her  face. 
"Why,  she  might  have  been  clerking  in  the 
post-office  store  now,  a  nice,  steady,  six-dollar- 
a-week  position  just  exactly  like  she  was  when 
it  happened." 

"Would  you  think,"  says  Mis'  Fire-Chief 
Merriman,  "that  living  here  in  Friendship 
Village  with  us,  anybody  could  go  wrong  ?" 

"  Sepulchers  in  sheep's  clothing  —  that's  what 
some  folks  are,"  says  little  new  Mis'  Graves, 
righteous. 

And  so  on.  And  on.  Hashing  it  all  over 
again  and  eating  it  for  cake.  And  me,  I  wasn't 
silent  either.  I  joined  in  here  and  there  with 
a  little  something  I'd  heard.  Till  by  the  time 
the  meeting  adjourned,  and  we'd  all  agreed  to 
meet  two  days  later  and  sew  on  the  bunting  for 
the  booths,  I  went  home  feeling  so  sick  and  hurt 
and  sore  and  skinned  that  after  dark  I  up  and 
walked  straight  down  to  Lisbeth's  house.  Yes. 
After  dark.  I  was  a  poor,  weak,  wavering  stick, 
and  I  knew  it. 

Lisbeth  came  to  the  door.  "Hello,  Lisbeth," 
I  says.  "It's  Calliope  Marsh.  Can  I  come 
in?" 

"Mother  ain't  here,  Mis'  Marsh,"  she  says 
faint. 


280  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

'"Ain't  she,  now?"  I  says.  "I  bet  she  is. 
I'm  going  inside  to  hunt  for  her." 

And  I  walked  right  into  the  sitting-room 
and  turned  and  looked  at  Lisbeth.  If  she'd 
been  defiant,  or  acted  don't-care,  or  tossed  her 
head,  or  stared  at  me  —  I  donno's  I'd  of  had 
the  strength  to  understand  that  these  might  be 
her  poor,  pitiful  weapons.  But  as  it  was,  her 
eyes  looked  straight  into  mine  for  a  minute,  and 
then  brimmed  up  full  of  tears.  So  I  kissed 
her. 

We  sat  there  for  an  hour  in  the  twilight  —  an 
hour  I'll  never  forget.  And  then  she  took  me 
up-stairs  to  show  me  the  boy. 

Think  of  the  prettiest  child  you  know.  Think 
of  the  prettiest  child  you  ever  did  know.  Now 
think  of  him  laying  asleep,  all  curls  and  his 
cheeks  flushed  and  his  lips  budded  open  a  little 
bit.  That  was  Chris.  That  was  Little  Chris 
topher  —  Lisbeth's  little  boy. 

"Miss  Marsh,"  Lisbeth  says,  "I'd  rather  die 
than  not  have  him  with  me.  And  mother  ain't 
strong,  and  she  needs  me.  Do  you  think  I  done 
wrong  to  come  home  ?" 

"Done  wrong?"  I  says.  "Done  wrong  to 
come  home  ?  Don't  them  words  kind  of  fight 
each  other  in  the  sentence  ?  Of  course  you 
didn't  do  wrong.  Why,"  says  I,  "Lisbeth,  this 


THE  HOME-COMING  281 

is  Friendship  Village's  Home-coming  year.  It's 
Home-coming  week  next  month,  you  know." 

She  looked  at  me  wistful  there  in  the  dark 
beside  the  child's  bed.  "Oh,  not  for  me,"  she 
says.  "This  house  is  my  home  —  but  this  town 
ain't  any  more.  It  don't  want  me." 

"It  don't  want  me,"  I  says  over  to  myself, 
going  home.  And  I  looked  along  at  the  nice, 
neat  little  houses,  with  the  front  doors  standing 
open  to  the  spring  night,  and  dishes  clattering 
musical  here  and  there  in  kitchens,  getting 
washed  up,  and  lights  up-stairs  where  children 
were  being  put  to  bed.  And  I  thought,  "Never 
tell  me  that  this  little  town  don't  want  every 
body  that  belongs  to  it  to  live  in  it.  The  town 
is  true.  It's  folks  that's  false."  I  says  that 
over  :  "The  town  is  true.  It's  folks  that's  false. 
How  you  going  to  make  them  know  it  ?" 

When  it  come  my  turn  to  have  the  Homecom 
ing  committee  meet  to  my  house,  things  had  begun 
to  get  exciting.  Acceptances  had  commenced 
coming  in.  I'd  emptied  out  my  photograph  bas 
ket,  and  we  had  'em  all  in  it.  It  was  real  fun 
and  heart-warming  to  read  'em.  Miss  Sykes  was 
presiding  —  that  woman'll  be  one  of  them  that 
comes  back  from  the  grave  to  do  table-rapping. 
She  does  so  love  to  call  anything  to  order. 


282  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"Judge  Eustis  Bangs  is  coming,"  says  Mis' 
Sykes,  impressive,  looking  over  the  envelopes. 
"They  say  his  wife  don't  think  anything  in  the 
world  of  having  company  in  to  a  meal  every 
week  or  so." 

"'Used-to'  Bangs  coming!"  cries  Mis'  Hol- 
comb-that-was-Mame  Bliss.  "He  set  behind  me 
in  school.  Land,  I  ain't  seen  him  since  graduat 
ing  exercises  when  he  dipped  my  braid  in  the 
inkwell." 

"And  Sarah  Arthur,"  Mis'  Sykes  went  on. 
"She's  lady  bookkeeper  in  a  big  department 
store  in  the  city,  and  in  with  all  them  four 
hundred." 

"I  always  wonder,"  says  Mis'  Holcomb, 
looking  up  and  frowning  meditative,  "four 
hundred  what  ?  Do  they  mean  folks,  or  mil 
lionaires,  or  what  do  they  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Oh,  why  millionaires,  of  course,"  says  Mis' 
Sykes.  "It  don't  refer  to  folks.  Look-a-here," 
she  says  next.  "Admiral  and  Mrs.  Homer  is 
coming.  Why,  you  know  he  was  only  bare 
born  here  —  he  went  away  before  he  was  three 
months  old.  And  she's  never  been  here.  But 
they're  coming  now.  Ladies  !  A  admiral  !" 

Mis'  Toplady  had  been  sitting  still  over  in  one 
corner,  darning,  with  her  mind  on  it.  But  now 
she  dropped  her  husband's  sock,  and  looked 


THE  HOME-COMING  283 

up.  "Admiral,"  she  says  over.  "That's  some 
thing  to  do  with  water  fighting,  ain't  it  ?  Well, 
I  want  to  know  what  they  call  it  that  for  ?  I 
thought  we  didn't  consider  it  admiral  any  more 
to  kill  folks,  by  land  or  by  sea  ?" 

"Oh,  but  he's  an  officer,"  Mis'  Sykes  says 
worshipful.  "  He'll  have  badges,  and  like  enough 
pantalettes  on  his  shoulders  ;  and  think  how  nice 
he'll  look  heading  the  parade  !" 

Mis'  Toplady  kind  of  bit  at  her  darning- 
needle,  dreamy.  "To  my  mind,"  she  says, 
"the  only  human  being  that's  fit  to  head  a 
parade  is  one  that's  just  old  enough  to 
walk." 

Just  then  Mis'  Sykes  done  her  most  emphatic 
squeal  and  pucker,  such  as,  if  she  was  foreign, 
she  would  reserve  for  royalty  alone. 

"My  land,"  she  says,  "Abner  Dawes  !  He's 
a-coming.  He's  a-coming!" 

There  couldn't  have  been  a  nicer  compliment 
to  any  one,  my  way  of  thinking,  than  the  little 
round  of  smiles  and  murmurs  that  run  about 
among  us  when  we  heard  this. 

Abner  Dawes  had  been,  thirty  years  before, 
a  nice,  shy  man  round  the  village,  and  we  all 
liked  him,  because  he  had  such  a  nice,  kind  way 
with  him  and  particularly  because  he  had  such 
a  way  with  children.  He  used  to  sing  'em  little 


284  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

songs  he  made  up.  And  some  of  the  little 
songs  got  in  the  paper  and  got  copied  in  the  city 
paper ;  and  first  thing  we  knew,  a  big  firm  sent 
for  Abner,  and  he'd  been  gone  ever  since.  We 
heard  of  him,  now  doing  his  children-songs 
on  the  stage,  now  in  a  big,  beautiful  book  of 
children's  songs,  with  pictures,  that  had  been 
sent  back  to  the  village.  And  we  were  prouder 
of  him  than  'most  anybody  we'd  got.  And  here 
he  was  coming  to  the  Home-coming. 

"We  must  give  him  the  Principal  Place,  what 
ever  that  is,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  immediate. 
And  we  all  agreed.  Yes,  Abner  must  have  the 
Principal  Place. 

We  were  sewing,  that  afternoon,  on  the  bunting 
for  Eppleby  Holcomb's  store's  booth.  Blazing 
red,  it  was  —  ain't  it  queer  how  men  loves  red  ? 
Color  of  blood  and  color  of  fire ;  but  I  always 
think  it  means  they'll  be  ready  to  love  not  blood 
of  war  but  blood-brotherhood,  and  not  the  torch 
to  burn  with,  but  the  torch  to  light  with  — 
when  the  time  comes.  Yes,  I  bet  men's  liking 
red  means  something,  and  I  like  to  think  it 
means  that.  And  if  it  does,  Eppleby'll  be 
first  among  men,  for  he  didn't  want  a  stitch  of 
his  booth  that  wasn't  flaming  scarlet. 

We  had  the  diagram  all  made  out  on  the 
table  again,  so's  to  tell  what  colors  would  come 


THE  HOME-COMING  285 

next  to  which.  And  all  of  a  sudden  Mis'  Sykes 
put  her  finger  in  the  middle  of  it. 

"Do  you  know  what?"  she  says.  "If  that 
tree  wasn't  in  the  middle  there,  we  could  have 
a  great  big  evening  bon-fire,  with  everybody 
around  it." 

"So  we  could.  Wouldn't  that  be  nice?" 
says  everybody  —  only  me.  Because  the  tree 
they  meant  was  the  Christmas  tree,  the  big 
evergreen,  the  living  Christmas  tree  that  had 
stood  there  in  the  square,  all  lit,  that  last 
Christmas  Eve,  with  all  of  us  singing  round 
it. 

'"I  can't  ever  think  of  that  being  in  any 
body's  way,"  I  says,  and  everybody  says, 
"Perhaps  not,"  and  we  went  on  tearing  off  the 
lengths  of  blazing  red  calico.  And  me,  I  set 
there  thinking  about  what  they'd  said. 

I  remember  I  was  still  thinking  about  it,  and 
Mis'  Sykes  and  I  were  standing  up  together 
measuring  off  the  breadths,  when  the  front  door 
opened.  And  there  was  standing  Chris,  Lisbeth's 
little  boy.  Him  and  I'd  got  to  be  awful  good 
friends  almost  from  the  first.  He  come  over 
to  my  house  quite  a  lot,  and  kneeled  on  a  chair 
side  of  the  table  when  I  was  doing  my  baking, 
and  he  brought  me  in  pans  of  chips.  And  no 
little  fellow  whatever  was  ever  sweeter. 


286  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

" Hello,  dear,"  I  says  now.  "Come  in,  won't 
you  ?" 

He  stood  quiet,  eying  us.  And  Mis'  Sykes 
down  she  drops  the  cloth  and  made  a  dive  for 
him. 

"You  darling!"  says  she — her  emphasis 
coming  out  in  bunches,  the  way  some  women's 
does  when  they  talk  to  children.  "  You  darling  ! 
Whose  little  boy  are  you  ?" 

He  looked  at  her,  shy  and  sweet.  "I'm 
my  mamma's  little  boy,"  he  says,  ready.  "But 
my  papa,  he  didn't  come  — not  yet." 

I  looked  over  to  Mis'  Sykes,  squatting  with  both 
arms  around  the  baby.  "He's  Lisbeth's  little 
boy,"  I  says.  "Ain't  he  d-e-a-r  ?"  — I  spells  it. 

Mis'  Sykes -drew  back,  like  the  little  fellow 
had  hit  at  her.  "Mercy!"  she  says,  only  — 
and  got  up,  and  went  on  tearing  cloth. 

He  felt  it,  like  little  children  do  feel  ever  so 
much  more  than  we  know  they  feel.  I  see  his 
little  lip  begin  to  curl.  I  went  and  whispered 
that  we'd  go  find  an  orange  in  the  pantry,  and 
I  took  him  to  get  it ;  and  then  he  went  off. 

When  I  went  back  in  the  sitting-room  they 
all  kind  of  kept  still,  like  they'd  been  saying 
things  they  didn't  mean  I  should  hear.  Only 
that  little  new  Mis'  Morgan  Graves,  she  sat 
with  her  back  to  the  door  and  she  was  speaking. 


THE  HOME-COMING  287 

"...  for  one  Sunday.  But  when  I  found 
it  out,  I  took  Bernie  right  out  of  the  class.  Of 
course  it  don't  matter  so  much  now,  but  when 
they  get  older,  you  can't  be  too  careful." 

I  went  and  stood  back  of  her  chair. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  says  I.  (We  try  here 
in  Friendship  Village  not  to  contradict  our 
guests  too  flat ;  but  when  it's  a  committee 
meeting,  of  course  a  hostess  feels  more  free.) 
"  You  can  be  a  whole  lot  too  careful,"  I  went  on. 
"You  can  be  so  careful  that  you  act  like  we 
wasn't  all  seeds  in  one  great  big  patch  of  earth, 
same  as  we  are." 

"Well,  but,  Calliope,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  "you 
can't  take  that  child  in.  You  ain't  any  children, 
or  you'd  know  how  a  mother  feels.  An  illegiti 
mate  child " 

Then  I  boiled  over  and  sissed  on  the  tip  of 
the  stove.  "Stop  that !"  I  says.  "Chris  ain't 
any  more  illegitimate  than  I  am.  True,  he's 
got  a  illegitimate  father  bowing  around  some- 
wheres  in  polite  society.  And  Lisbeth  —  well, 
she's  bore  him  and  she's  raised  him  and  she's 
paid  his  keep  for  four  years,  and  I  ain't  prepared 
to  describe  what  kind  of  mother  she  is  by  any 
one  word  in  the  dictionary.  But  the  minute 
you  tack  that  one  word  on  to  Chris,  well,"  says 
I,  "you  got  me  to  answer  to." 


288  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"But,  Calliope!"  cries  Mis'  Sykes.  "You 
can't  take  him  in  without  taking  in  the  mother  !" 

"No,"  says  I,  "and  I've  took  her  in  already. 
Is  my  morals  nicked  any  to  speak  of  ?  Mind 
you,"  I  says,  "I  ain't  arguin'  with  you  to  take  in 
anybody  up  till  they  want  to  be  took  in  and  do 
right.  I've  got  my  own  ideas  on  that  too,  but 
I  ain't  arguing  it  with  you  here.  All  I  say  now 
is,  Why  not  take  in  Lisbeth  ?" 

"Why  not  put  a  premium  on  evil-doing  and 
have  done  with  it?"  says  Mis'  Fire-Chief 
Merriman,  majestic  and  deep-toned. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "we've  done  that  to  the 
father's  evil.  Maybe  you  can  tell  me  why  we 
fixed  up  his  premium  so  neat  ?" 

"Oh,  well,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  "surely  we 
needn't  argue  it.  Why,  the  whole  of  civilization 
is  on  our  side  and  responsible  for  our  way  of 
thinking.  You  ain't  got  no  argument,  Calli 
ope,"  she  says.  "Besides,  it  ain't  what  any  of 
us  thinks  that  proves  it.  It's  what's  what  that 


counts.'1 


"  Civilization,"  says  I.  "And  time.  They're 
responsible  for  a  good  deal,  ain't  they  ?  Wars 
and  martyrdom  and  burnings  and  —  crucifixion. 
All  done  in  the  immortal  name  of  what's  what. 
Well,  me,  I  don't  care  a  cake  o'  washing  soap 
what's  what.  What's  what  ain't  nothing  but  a 


THE  HOME-COMING  289 

foot-bridge  anyhow,  on  over  to  what's-going- to- 
be.  And  if  you  tell  me  that  civilization  and 
time  can  keep  going  much  longer  putting  a 
premium  on  a  man's  wrong  and  putting  a  penalty 
on  the  woman  —  then  I  tell  you  to  your  face  that 
I've  got  inside  information  that  you  ain't  got. 
Because  in  the  end  —  in  the  end,  life  ain't  that 


sort." 


"Good  for  you,  Calliope  !"  says  a  voice  in  the 
door.  And  when  I'd  wheeled  round,  there  stood 
Eppleby  Holcomb,  come  in  to  see  how  we  were 
getting  along  with  the  cloth  for  his  booth. 
"Good  for  you,"  he  says,  grave. 

We  all  felt  stark  dumb  with  embarrassment  — 
I  guess  they  hadn't  one  of  us  ever  said  that  much 
in  company  with  a  man  present  in  our  lives.  In 
company,  with  man  or  men  present,  we'd  talked 
like  life  was  made  up  of  the  pattern  of  things, 
and  like  speaking  of  warp  and  woof  wasn't  deli 
cate.  And  we  never  so  much  as  let  on  they  was 
any  knots  —  unless  it  was  property  knots  or  like 
that.  But  now  I  had  to  say  something,  being  I 
had  said  something.  And  besides,  I  wanted 
to. 

"Do  you  believe  that  too,  Eppleby?"  I 
ask'  him  breathless.  "Do  any  men  believe 
that?" 

"Some  men  do,  thank  God,"  Eppleby  says. 


290  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

And  his  wife,  Mame,  smiled  over  to  him ;  and 
Mis'  Timothy  Toplady,  she  booms  out:  "Yes, 
lets  thank  God  !"  And  I  see  that  anyhow  we 
four  felt  one.  And  "Is  this  stuff  for  my  blazing 
booth  here?"  Eppleby  sings  out,  to  relieve 
the  strain.  And  we  all  talked  at  once. 

From  that  day  on  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
town  took  sides  about  Lisbeth. 

Half  of  'em  talked  like  Mis'  Sykes,  often  and 
abundant.  And  one-quarter  didn't  say  much  of 
anything  till  they  were  pressed  to.  And  the 
remaining  one-quarter  didn't  say  anything  for 
fear  of  offending  the  other  three-fourths,  here 
and  there.  But  some  went  to  see  Lisbeth,  and 
sent  her  in  a  little  something.  She  didn't  go 
much  of  anywheres  —  she  was  shy  of  accepting 
pity  where  it  would  embarrass  the  givers.  But 
oh  my,  how  she  did  need  friends  ! 

Mame  Holcomb  was  the  only  one  that  Lisbeth 
went  to  her  house  by  invite.  Mame  let  it  be 
known  that  she  had  invited  her,  and  full  half  of 
them  she'd  asked  sent  in  their  regrets  in  conse 
quence.  And  of  them  that  did  go  —  well, 
honest,  of  all  the  delicate  tasks  the  Lord  has 
intrusted  to  His  blundering  children,  I  think  the 
delicatest  is  talking  to  one  of  us  that's  somehow 
stepped  off  the  track  in  public. 


THE  HOME-COMING  291 

I  heard  Mis'  Morgan  Graves  trying  to  talk  to 
Lisbeth  about  like  this  :  "My  dear  child.  How 
do  you  get  on  ?" 

"Very  nice,  thank  you,  Mis'  Graves,"  says 
Lisbeth. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you  ?" 
the  lady  pursues,  earnest. 

"No,  Mis'  Graves,  nothing — thank  you," 
says  Lisbeth,  looking  down. 

"You  know  I'd  be  so  willing,  so  very  willing, 
to  do  all  I  could  at  any  time.  You  feel  that 
about  me,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Lisbeth,  beginning  to 
turn  fire  red. 

"Promise,"  says  Mis'  Graves,  "to  let  me  know 
if  you  ever  need  a  friend " 

And  I  couldn't  stand  it  a  minute  longer. 
"That's  you,  Mis'  Graves,"  I  broke  in  .hearty. 
"And  it's  what  I've  been  wanting  to  say  to  you 
for  ever  so  long.  You're  a  good  soul.  When 
ever  you  need  a  friend,  just  come  to  me.  Will 
you?" 

She  looked  kind  of  dazed,  and  three-fourths 
indignant.  "Why  .  .  ."  she  begun. 

And  I  says  :  "And  you'd  let  me  come  to  you 
if  I  need  a  friend,  wouldn't  you  ?  I  thought  so. 
Well,  now,  here's  three  of  us  good  friends,  and 
showing  it  only  when  it's  needed.  Let's  us 


292  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

three  go  and  set  down  together  for  refreshments, 
sha'n'twe?" 

Lisbeth  looked  up  at  me  like  a  dog  that  I'd 
patted.  I  donno  but  Mis'  Graves  thought  I 
was  impertinent.  I  donno  but  I  was.  But  I 
like  to  be  —  like  that.  Oh,  anything  but  the 
"protected"  women  that  go  cooing  and  humming 
and  pooring  around  a  girl  like  Lisbeth,  and  doing 
it  in  the  name  of  friendliness.  Friendliness  isn't 
that.  And  if  you  don't  know  what  it  is  different 
from  that,  then  go  out  into  the  crowd  of  the 
world,  stripped  and  hungry  and  dumb  and  by 
yourself,  and  wait  till  it  comes  to  you.  It'll 
come !  God  sees  to  that.  And  it's  worth 
everything.  For  if  you  die  without  finding  it 
out,  you  die  without  knowing  life. 

After  that  day,  none  of  us  invited  Lisbeth  in 
company.  We  see  it  was  kinder  not  to. 

But  the  little  boy  —  the  little  boy.  There 
wasn't  any  way  of  protecting  him.  And  it  never 
entered  Lisbeth's  head  at  first  that  she  was 
going  to  be  struck  at  through  him.  She  sent 
him  to  Sunday-school,  and  everything  was  all 
right  there,  except  Mis'  Graves  taking  her  little 
boy  out  of  the  class  he  was  in,  and  Lisbeth  didn't 
know  that.  Then  she  sent  him  to  day  school, 
in  the  baby  room.  And  Mis'  Sykes's  little 
grandchild  went  there — Artie  Barling;  and 


THE  HOME-COMING  293 

I  guess  he  must  have  heard  his  mother  and  Mis' 
Sykes  talking  —  anyway  at  recess  he  shouts 
out  when  they  was  playing  : 

"  Everybody  that  was  born  in  the  house  be 
on  my  side  !" 

They  all  went  rushing  over  to  his  side,  Chris 
topher  too. 

"Naw!"  Artie  says  to  him.  "Not  youse. 
Youse  was  borned  outside.  My  gramma  says 


so." 


So  Chris  went  home,  crying,  with  that.  And 
then  Lisbeth  begun  to  understand.  I  went  in  to 
see  her  one  afternoon,  and  found  her  working 
out  in  the  little  patch  of  her  mother's  garden. 
When  she  see  me  she  set  down  by  the  hollyhocks 
she  was  transplanting  and  looked  up  at  me,  just 
numb. 

"Miss  Marsh,"  she  says,  "it's  God  pun 
ishing  me,  I  s'pose,  but " 

"No,  Lisbeth,"  I  says.  "No.  The  real  pun 
ishment  ain't  this.  This  is  just  folks  punishing 
you.  Don't  never  mistake  the  one  for  the  other, 
will  you  ?" 

Acceptances  to  the  Home-coming  kept  flowing 
in  like  mad  —  all  the  folks  we'd  most  wanted 
to  come  was  a-coming,  them  and  their  families. 
I  begun  to  get  warm  all  through  me,  and  to  go 


294  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

round  singing,  and  to  wake  up  feeling  something 
grand  was  going  to  happen  and,  when  I  was  busy, 
to  know  there  was  something  nice,  just  over  the 
edge  of  my  job,  sitting  there  rosy,  waiting  to  be 
thought  about.  It  worked  on  us  all  that  way. 
It  was  a  good  deal  like  being  in  love.  I  donno 
but  it  was  being  in  love.  In  love  with  folks. 

The  afternoon  before  the  Home-coming  was 
to  begin,  there  was  to  be  a  rehearsal  of  the  Chil 
dren's  Drill,  that  Mis'  Sykes  had  charge  of  for  the 
opening  night.  We  were  all  on  the  Market 
Square,  working  like  beavers  and  like  trojums, 
or  whatever  them  other  busy  animals  are,  getting 
the  booths  set  up.  All  the  new  things  that  the 
town  had  got  and  done  in  the  last  fifty  years  was 
represented,  each  in  a  booth,  all  round  the 
Square.  .  .  .  And  in  the  middle  of  the  Square 
stood  the  great  big  Cedar-of-Lebanon  tree  that 
we'd  used  last  Christmas  for  the  first  annual 
Friendship  Village  outdoors  Christmas  tree. 
I  wondered  how  anybody  could  ever  have  said 
that  it  was  in  the  way  !  It  stood  there,  all 
still,  and  looking  like  it  knew  us  far,  far  better 
than  we  knew  it  —  the  way  a  tree  does.  With 
the  wind  blowing  through  it  gentle,  it  made  a 
wonderful  nice  center-piece,  I  thought. 

We'd  just  got  to  tacking  on  to  Eppleby 
Holcomb's  red  Department  Emporium  booth 


THE.  HOME-COMING  295 

when  we  heard  a  shout,  and  there,  racing  along 
the  street,  come  the  forty-fifty  children  that 
was  going  to  be  in  the  Children's  Drill.  They 
all  come  pounding  and  scampering  over  to  where 
we  were,  each  with  a  little  paper  stick  in  their 
hand  for  the  wand  part,  and  they  swarmed  up  to 
Mis'  Sykes  that  was  showing  'em  how,  and  they 
shouted : 

"Mis'  Sykes!  Mis'  Sykes!  Can't  we  re 
hearse  now?" — for  "rehearse"  seems  to  be  a 
word  that  children  just  loves  by  natural  instinct 
same  as  "cave"  and  "den"  and  "secret  stair 
way." 

I  looked  down  in  the  faces  all  pink  and  eager 
and  happy  —  I  knew  most  of  'em  by  name.  I'd 
be  ashamed  to  live  in  a  town  where  I  didn't 
know  anyway  fifty-sixty  children  by  name,  keep 
ing  up  as  fast  as  necessary.  And  with  'em  I  see 
was  Lisbeth's  little  boy,  waving  a  stick  of 
kindling  for  his  wand,  happy  as  a  clam,  but  not  a 
mum  clam  at  all. 

"Hello,  Chris  !"  I  says.  "I  didn't  know  you 
could  drill." 

But  he  stopped  jumping  and  laughing.  "I 
can't,"  he  says,  "I  was  just  pe-tend.  I  can 
pe-tend,  can't  I  ?"  he  says,  looking  up  alarmed. 

"  Hush,  Calliope  ! "  says  Mis'  Sykes,  back  of  me. 
"No  need  making  it  any  harder  for  him  than  'tis." 


296  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  I  ask' her  sharp. 

"Why,"  says  she,  "I  couldn't  have  him  in  the 
drill.  How  could  I  ?  The  children's  mothers  is 
coming  down  here  to  trim  'em.  Lots  of  'em  — 
Mis'  Grace  and  Mis'  Morgan  Graves  and  some 
more,  said  flat  out  they  wouldn't  let  their  children 
be  in  it  if  they  had  to  trim  'em  along  with  her." 

"My  land,"  I  says,  "my  land  !"   ' 

I  couldn't  say  anything  more.  And  Mis' 
Sykes  called  the  children,  and  they  all  went 
shouting  round  her  over  to  the  middle  of  the 
green.  All  but  Chris. 

I  picked  him  up  and  set  him  on  the  counter 
of  the  booth,  and  I  stood  side  of  him.  But  he 
didn't  pay  much  attention  to  me.  He  was 
looking  off  after  the  children,  forming  in  two  lines 
that  broke  into  four,  and  wheeled  and  turned, 
and  waved  their  wands.  He  watched  'em,  and 
he  never  says  a  word. 

"Come  and  help  me  tack  tacks,  Chris,"  I 
says,  when  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 

And  then  he  says  :  "When  they  do  it,  it's 
going  to  be  a  band  playing,  won't  there  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "but  we'll  all  be  hearing  the 
music.  Come  and " 

"When  they  do  it,"  he  says,  still  looking  off 
at  the  children,  "they'll  all  have  white  on  'em, 
won't  they  ?" 


THE  HOME-COMING  297 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "white  on  'em."  And  couldn't 
say  no  more. 

Then  he  turns  and  looks  me  right  in  the  face : 
"I  got  my  new  white  suit  home,"  he  says, 
whispering. 

"Yes,  lambin',  yes,"  I  says,  and  had  to  pre 
tend  I  didn't  understand.  And  when  I  looked 
back  at  him,  he  was  setting  there,  still  and 
watching ;  but  two  big  tears  was  going  down  his 
cheeks. 

All  of  a  sudden  something  in  me,  something 
big  and  quiet,  turned  round  to  me  and  said 
something.  I  heard  it  —  oh,  I  tell  you,  I  heard 
it.  And  it  wasn't  the  first  time.  And  all  over 
me  went  racing  the  knowledge  that  there  was 
something  to  do  for  what  was  the  matter. 
And  while  I  stood  there,  feeling  the  glory  of 
knowing  that  I'd  got  to  find  a  way  to  do,  some 
how  —  like  you  do  sometimes  —  to  make  things 
better,  I  looked  down  the  long  green  stretch 
of  the  Square  and  in  the  middle  of  the  Square 
I  saw  something.  Something  that  was  like  an 
answer.  And  I  put  my  arms  round  Chris  and 
hugged  him.  For  I'd  got  a  plan  that  was  like  a 
present. 

But  he  didn't  feel  like  that  —  not  then.  He 
kind  of  wriggled  away.  "It  ain't  lovin'  time," 
he  says.  "No." 


298  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

"No,"  I  says,  looking  down  that  sunny  Market 
Square  toward  what  I'd  seen.  "No,  it  ain't 
loving  time  —  not  yet.  But  I  tell  you,  I  tell 
you  it's  going  to  be  it !  Mebbe  I  can  make  'em 
see  —  mebbe  I  know  a  way  to  make  'em  see. 
Come  along  with  me,"  I  says,  "Lisbeth's  little 
boy  — and  help  !" 

Toward  sundown  of  that  first  great  day  of  the 
Friendship  Village  Home-coming  we  was  the 
happiest,  wore-outest  set  of  folks  I  about  ever 
see.  Not  everybody  we'd  expected  and  hoped 
for  had  come  —  even  Abner  Dawes,  he  hadn't 
showed  up.  But  then  he  was  such  a  big  man 
that  I  donno's  any  of  us  thought  he'd  come,  any 
of  the  time.  Only  we  did  enjoy  having  it  in  the 
Daily  every  few  nights  that  he'd  be  there. 
The  editor  of  the  Friendship  Evening  Daily  got 
six  distinct  locals  out  of  it  for  "Supper  Table 
Jottings "  —  six  nights  hand-running.  Thus  : 

1.  Abner  Dawes  is  expected  to  arrive  from  the  east  for 
the  Home-coming. 

2.  Abner  Dawes  will  arrive  from  the  east  the  last  of 
the  week.     The  occasion  is  the  Home-coming. 

3.  Word    has    been    received    that   Abner    Dawes    will 
reach  here  Thursday  evening  to  attend  the  Home-coming. 

4.  Abner  Dawes  will  reach  here  to-morrow  night. 

5.  Abner  Dawes  will  reach  here  this  evening  on  the  Six 
fifty-nine,  for  a  brief  sojourn. 


THE  HOME-COMING  299 

6.  Abner  Dawes  arrived  last  evening  and  is  quartered 
at  the  Opera  House  hotel. 

Some  we  hadn't  thought  of  turned  up  last 
minute,  and  had  to  tell  folks  who  they  were  and 
then  —  my,  what  a  welcome  !  Every  few  min 
utes,  all  day  long,  we'd  hear  a  little  shouting, 
and  see  a  little  crowd,  and  we'd  all  rush  over,  and 
there'd  be  somebody  just  got  there,  and  every- 
body'd  be  calling  'em  old  names,  and  shaking 
hands  with  the  children  and  kissing  the  grand 
children.  It  was  a  real  day.  It'd  be  a  day  I'd 
like  to  talk  about  even  if  nothing  else  had  hap 
pened  but  the  day  being  just  the  day. 

Mis'  Sykes  and  I  were  in  Eppleby's  booth,  and 
in  back  of  it  the  children  was  all  trimmed  and 
ready  to  begin  their  march,  when  I  heard  an  un 
usual  disturbance  just  outside.  I  looked,  and 
I  saw  Lisbeth,  that  Eppleby  had  asked  to  come 
and  help  tend  his  booth  that  night,  and  she  was 
just  getting  there,  with  Chris  trotting  alongside  of 
her.  But  they  weren't  making  the  disturbance. 
Most  of  that  was  Eppleby,  shaking  both  the 
hands  of  a  big,  smooth-boned,  brown-skinned 
man  that  was  shouting  at  his  lungs'  top : 

"Eppleby  Bebbleby 
Wooden-leg, 
Lost  his  knife 
Playin*  mumblety-peg" 


300  NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES 

with  all  the  gusto  of  a  psalm.  And  Eppleby 
was  shouting  back  at  him  something  about 

"  Abner  Dawes  he  comes  to  late 
The  wood  was  split  and  things  was  great" 

And  it  was  Abner  actually  come  and  getting 
himself  welcomed  by  Eppleby  just  like  one  of  us. 
And  Abner  begun  remembering  us  all  and  calling 
us  by  name. 

Abner  was  one  of  them  men  that  makes  you 
know  what  men  were  meant  to  be  like.  His  face 
was  ruddy  and  wrinkled  —  but  oh,  it  was  deep 
and  bright,  and  his  eyes  looked  out  like  his  soul 
was  saying  to  your  soul:  "See  me.  I'm  you. 
Oh,  come  on,  let's  find  out  about  living.  How 
does  anybody  ever  talk  about  anything  else  ?" 
That  was  Abner.  You  couldn't  be  with  him 
without  looking  closer  at  the  nature  of  being 
alive.  And  you  saw  that  life  is  a  different 
thing  —  a  different  thing  from  what  most  of 
us  think.  And  some  day  we'll  find  out  what. 

And  me,  seeing  him,  and  the  folks  all  gathered 
round  the  Square,  waiting  for  the  after-supper 
part  of  the  entertainment,  and  knowing  what 
I'd  planned  should  happen  right  afterward,  I 
had  only  one  thought : 

"Abner,"  I  says,  just  the  same  as  if  he  hadn't 
been  a  great  man,  "the  children — they're 


THE  HOME-COMING  301 

going  to  march.  They're  in  back  of  the  booth, 
all  ready.  You  must  lead  'em  !  He  must  lead 
'em,  Mis'  Sykes,  mustn't  he  —  and  sing  with 
'em  ?  Every  child  here  knows  your  songs. 
Oh,  would  you  come  and  march  with  'em  ?" 

I  love  to  remember  how  deep  and  bright  his 
face  got.  "Would  I  march  ?"  he  says.  "With 
children?  When  is  it  ?  — now  ?" 

I  put  out  my  hand  to  thank  him,  and  he  took 
hold  of  it.  And  all  of  a  sudden,  right  down 
there  close  by  our  two  hands  I  see  somebody. 
And  it  was  Lisbeth's  little  boy,  that  had  come 
running  to  us  and  was  tugging  at  my  skirt. 

"Look,"  Chris  says,  clear.  "I  got  on  this 
white  one.  Couldn't  —  couldn't  I  march  too  ?" 

He  was  looking  up,  same  as  a  rose,  his  big  eyes 
shining  hopeful.  My,  my,  but  he  was  dear. 
And  Abner  Dawes  looked  down  at  him.  He'd 
never  seen  him  before  —  nor  knew  about  his 
being  Lisbeth's. 

"March  !"  Abner  cries.  "Of  course  you  can 
march  !  Come  along  with  me." 

And  he  swung  little  Christopher  up  on  to  his 
back.  And  he  run  out  into  the  midst  of  the 
other  children,  where  Mis'  Sykes  was  marshaling 
'em  before  the  booth. 

"God  bless  him,"  says  Eppleby,  behind  me. 

But  then  Mis'  Sykes  looked  up,  and  saw  him. 


302  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

And  she  never  hesitated  a  minute,  not  even  a 
minute  to  wonder  why.  She  just  set  her  lips 
together  in  that  thin  line  I  knew,  and  she  run 
right  up  to  Abner. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Dawes,"  she  says,  "you  mustn't. 
The  mothers  won't  like  it.  He's  Lisbeth  Note's 
child.  He's " 

Abner  Dawes  looked  down  at  her,  round 
Chris's  white  legs.  All  the  brightness  was  gone 
out  of  Abner's  face  now  —  but  not  the  deepness 
nor  the  kindness.  That  stayed.  "Do  you 
mean,"  he  said  grave,  "that  this  child  is  evil  ?" 

'"No  — no,"  says  Mis'  Sykes,  stumbling  some. 
"But  I  thought  you'd  ought  to  know — folks 
feeling  as  they  do  here " 

Abner  turned  and  looked  down  the  green, 
where  the  folks  was  gathered  and  the  last  sun  was 
slanting.  It  was  gold,  and  it  was  still,  all  except 
the  folks  chatting  in  groups.  And  up  the  street 
the  half-past  seven  bell  was  ringing,  like  some 
body  saying  something  nice. 

"Oh,  God,"  says  Abner  Dawes,  kind  of 
reverent  and  kind  of  like  a  sigh.  "Here  too. 
Here  too." 

I'll  never  forget  his  face  when  he  turned  to 
Mis'  Sykes.  It  wasn't  hard  or  cross  or  accusing 
—  I  guess  he  knew  she  was  just  at  her  crooked 
way  of  trying  to  be  decent  !  But  he  made  her 


THE  HOME-COMING  303 

know  firm  that  if  he  led  the  children's  march, 
he'd  lead  it  with  Chris. — And  it  was  so  he 
done. 

.  .  .  Down  the  long  green  they  come,  side  by 
side.  And  the  other  children  fell  in  behind,  and 
they  circled  out  into  a  great  orbit,  with  the 
Christmas  tree  in  the  middle  of  it.  And  folks 
begun  to  see  who  the  man  was  at  the  head,  and 
the  word  run  round,  and  they  all  broke  out  and 
cheered  and  called  out  to  him.  Oh,  it  was  a 
great  minute.  I  like  to  think  about  it. 

And  then  the  murmur  begun  running  round 
that  it  was  Chris  that  was  with  him.  And 
Mame  Holcomb  and  Eppleby  and  Mis'  Toplady 
and  me,  watching  from  the  booth,  we  knew  how 
everybody  was  looking  at  everybody  else  to  see 
what  to  think  —  like  folks  do.  But  they  didn't 
know  —  not  yet. 

Then  something  wonderful  happened.  Half 
way  round  the  Square,  Abner  noticed  that 
Chris  didn't  have  any  wand,  same  as  the  other 
children  had.  And  so,  when  he  was  passing  the 
big  Cedar-of-Lebanon-looking  Christmas  tree, 
what  did  he  do  but  break  off  a  little  branch  and 
put  that  in  Chris's  hand.  And  Chris  come  on 
a-waving  it,  a  bough  off  that  tree.  I  sort  of 
sung  all  over  when  I  saw  that. 

The  children  ended  up  round  a  platform,  and 


304  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

up  there  went  the  folks  that  had  been  picked  out 
to  lead  the  singing.  And  as  they  went  they 
sung: 

"Oh,  how  lovely  is  the  evening,  is  the  evening,  is  the 
evening ! " 

And  in  a  minute,  from  first  one  place  and  then 
another  the  others  took  it  up,  them  that  had 
sung  it  in  singing  school,  years  ago  — 

"When  the  bells  are  sweetly  chiming,  sweetly  chiming, 
sweetly  chiming  " 

and  they  sung  it  like  a  round,  which  it  is,  with 
a  great  fine  booming  bass  of 

"Ding  dong,  ding  dong,  ding  dong" 

all  through  it.  Do  you  know  that  round  ?  If 
you  don't,  get  it ;  and  get  some  folks  together 
somehow,  and  sing  it.  It  lets  you  taste  the 
evening.  But  I  can't  tell  you  the  way  it  seemed 
to  us  there  in  Friendship  Village,  met  together 
after  so  many  years,  and  singing  together  like 
we  was  all  one  Folk.  One  Folk. 

They  sung  other  songs,  while  the  dusk  came 
on.  Abner  Dawes  was  sitting  on  the  platform, 
and  he  kept  Chris  on  his  knee  —  I  loved  him  for 
that.  There  wasn't  a  set  program.  First  one 


THE  HOME-COMING  305 

would  start  a  song  from  somewheres  in  the  crowd, 
and  then  another.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  I  was 
waiting  for  it  to  get  dark  enough  to  do  what  I 
had  planned  to  be  done  —  and  what  I'd  had 
men  working  at  near  all  the  night  before  to  get 
ready.  And  when  the  dark  come  thick  enough, 
and  just  at  the  end,  I  remember  of  their  singing 
"Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton,"  I  thought  it  was 
time. 

I  gave  the  word  to  them  that  were  waiting. 
And  suddenly,  right  there  in  the  midst  of  the 
Square,  the  great  green  tree,  that  had  been  the 
Friendship  Village  Christmas  tree,  glowed  softly 
alight  from  top  to  bottom,  all  in  the  green 
branches,  just  like  it  had  glowed  on  Christmas 
Eve.  They'd  done  the  work  good,  and  as  if  they 
liked  it  —  and  the  bulbs  were  in  so  deep  in  the 
green  that  not  a  soul  had  noticed  all  day.  And 
there  was  the  Christmas  tree,  come  back. 

"Oh  .  .  ."  they  says,  low,  all  over  the  Square. 
And  nobody  said  anything  else.  It  was  as  if, 
awake  and  alive  in  that  living  tree,  there  was 
the  same  spirit  that  had  been  there  on  Christmas 
Eve,  the  spirit  that  we've  got  to  keep  alive  year 
long,  year  round,  year  through. 

I'd  whispered  something  to  Abner,  and  he 
come  down  from  the  platform  and  went  over 
close  to  the  tree.  And  of  a  sudden  he  lifted 


306  NEIGHBORHOOD   STORIES 

Chris  in  his  arms,  high  up  among  the  lit  branches. 
And  in  everybody's  hush  he  says  clear : 

"'And  He  took  a  little  child  and  set  him  in  their  midst.9" 

That  was  all  he  said.  And  Chris  looked  out 
and  smiled  happy,  and  waved  his  branch  off  the 
Christmas  tree.  Over  the  whole  Market  Square 
there  lay  a  stillness  that  said  things  to  itself  and 
to  us.  It  said  that  here  was  the  Family,  come 
home,  round  the  tree,  big  folks  and  little,  wise 
and  foolish,  and  all  feeling  the  Christmas  spirit 
in  our  hearts  just  like  it  was  our  hearts.  It  said 
that  the  Family's  judging  Lisbeth  Note  one 
way  or  the  other  didn't  settle  anything,  nor 
neither  did  our  treating  her  little  boy  mean  or 
good.  .  .  . 

For  all  of  a  sudden  we  were  all  .of  us  miles 
deeper  into  life  than  that.  And  we  saw  how, 
beyond  judgment  and  even  beyond  what's 
what,  is  a  spirit  that  has  got  to  come  and  clutch 
hold  of  life  before  such  wrongs,  and  more  wrongs, 
and  all  the  wrongs  that  ail  us,  can  stop  being. 
And  that  spirit  will  be  the  spirit  that  was  in  our 
hearts  right  then.  We  all  knew  it  together  —  I 
think  even  Mis'  Sykes  knew  —  and  we  stood 
there  steeped  in  the  knowing.  And  it  was  one  of 
the  minutes  when  the  thing  we've  made  out  of 
living  falls  clean  away,  like  a  husk  and  a  shell,  and 


THE   HOME-COMING  307 

the  Shining  Thing  inside  comes  close  and  says  : 
"This  is  the  way  I  am  if  you'll  let  me  be  it." 

Away  over  on  the  edge  of  the  Square  some 
body's  voice,  a  man's  voice  —  we  never  knew 
who  it  was — begun  singing  "Home  Again, 
From  a  Distant  Shore."  And  everybody  all 
over  took  it  up  soft.  And  standing  there  round 
the  Christmas  tree  in  the  middle  of  June,  with 
that  little  child  in  our  midst,  it  was  as  true  for  us 
as  ever  it  was  on  Christmas  night,  that  glory 
shone  around.  And  we  had  come  Home  in  more 
senses  than  we'd  thought,  to  a  place,  a  Great 
Place,  that  was  waiting  for  us. 

Pretty  soon  I  slipped  away,  inside  Eppleby's 
booth.  And  there,  in  all  that  scarlet  bunting, 
Lisbeth  stood,  looking  and  crying,  all  alone  — 
but  crying  for  being  glad. 

"Lisbeth,  Lisbeth  !"  I  said,  "right  out  there 
is  the  way  life  is  — when  we  can  get  it  uncovered." 

She  looked  up  at  me ;  and  I  saw  the  thing  in 
her  face  that  was  in  the  faces  of  all  those  in  the 
Square,  like  believing  and  like  hoping,  more  than 
any  of  us  knows  how  —  yet. 

"Honest?"  she  said.     "Honest  and  truly?" 

"Honest  and  truly,"  I  told  her. 

And  I  believe  that.  And  you  believe  it. 
If  only  we  can  get  it  said.  .  .  . 


TTHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  books  by 
the  same  author  and  a  few  of  the  new  Macmillan  novels. 


By  the  Same  Author 

When  I  Was  a  Little  Girl 

Colored  illustrations,  I2mo,  $1.50  net]  postage  extra 

"  So  exquisite  that  we  want  our  older  readers  to  have  a  share  in  it 
as  well  as  those  younger  ones  for  whom  it's  apparently  designed. 
It's  the  only  quite  recent  thing  within  hailing  distance  of  'Peter 
Pan'  and  'The  Blue  Bird'  — a  real  fairy  tale  of  childhood.  The 
introduction  is  such  a  gem  that  one  could  love  it  for  that  alone. 
One  of  the  year's  most  charming  gift  books  —  beautifully  illustrated." 

—  Continent. 

"  Full  of  delightful  fantasy  and  keen  observation.  ...  In  many 
ways  it  is  better  than  Loti's  remembrances  of  his  childhood,  because 
it  is  more  of  an  appeal  to  the  imagination."  —  Boston  Globe. 

"  That  Miss  Gale  has  told  her  story  in  exquisite  fashion  need  not 
be  said.  Her  literary  touch  is  always  true  and  sure.  She  is  happy  in 
her  illustrator.  Miss  Agnes  Pelton  has  caught  the  ethereal  quality 
of  the  book,  reflecting  it  in  her  fairies  and  '  Theys '  and  in  the 
spirituelle  little  maid  herself.  ' The  Great  Dew '  and  '  The  Great 
Black  Hush '  are  delightful  monsters,  just  scary  enough  to  be  allur 
ing.  Text,  pictures,  and  format  combine  to  make  'When  I  Was  a 
Little  Girl '  an  ideal  gift  for  all  who  have  kept  the  child  heart,  or  who 
would  fain  find  it  again."  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  book  is  an  unusual  addition  to  the  very  limited  number  of 
good  reminiscences  of  childhood."  —  The  Outlook. 

"A  more  charming  story  of  child-life  can  hardly  be  imagined." 

—  Boston  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


By  the  Same  Author 

Christmas 

BY  ZONA    GALE 

Author  of  "Mothers  to  Men,"  "The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre." 
Illustrated  in  colors  by  LEON  SOLON. 

Decorated  cloth,  J2mo,  $1.30  net ;  postage  extra 

A  town  in  the  Middle  West,  pinched  with  poverty,  decides 
that  it  will  have  no  Christmas,  as  no  one  can  afford  to  buy  gifts. 
They  perhaps  foolishly  reckon  that  the  heart-burnings  and  the 
disappointments  of  the  children  will  be  obviated  by  passing  the 
holiday  season  over  with  no  observance.  How  this  was  found 
to  be  simply  and  wholly  impossible,  how  the  Christmas  joys  and 
Christmas  spirit  crept  into  the  little  town  and  into  the  hearts  of 
its  most  positive  objectors,  and  how  Christmas  cannot  be  arbi 
trated  about,  make  up  the  basis  of  a  more  than  ordinarily 
appealing  novel.  Incidentally  it  is  a  little  boy  who  really  makes 
possible  a  delightful  outcome.  A  thread  of  romance  runs  through 
it  all  with  something  of  the  meaning  of  Christmas  for  the  indi 
vidual  human  being  and  for  the  race. 

"  A  fine  story  of  Yuletide  impulses  in  Miss  Gale's  best  style." 
—  N.Y.  World. 

"  No  living  writer  more  thoroughly  understands  the  true  spirit 
of  Christmas  than  does  Zona  Gale."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

" (  Christmas '  is  that  rare  thing,  a  Yuletide  tale,  with  a  touch 
of  originality  about  it."  —  N.  Y.  Press. 

"  The  book  is  just  the  thing  for  a  gift." —  Chicago  Tribune. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


The  Other  Books  of  Miss  Gale 
Mothers  to  Men 

Decorated  cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50  net ;  postage  extra 

The  author  is  singularly  successful  in  detaching  herself  from  all  the 
wear  and  tear  of  modern  life  and  has  produced  a  book  filled  with 
sweetness,  beautiful  in  ideas,  charming  in  characterizations,  highly  con 
templative,  and  evidencing  a  philosophy  of  life  all  her  own. 

"One  of  the  most  widely  read  of  our  writers  of  short  fiction."  — 
The  Bookman. 

Friendship  Village 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50  net ;  postage  extra 

"  As  charming  as  an  April  day,  all  showers  and  sunshine,  and  some 
times  both  together,  so  that  the  delighted  reader  hardly  knows  whether 
laughter  or  tears  are  fittest."  —  The  New  York  Times. 

The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.30  net;  postage  extra 

Macmillan  Fiction  Library 

J2mo,  $'.50  net 

"  It  contains  the  sort  of  message  that  seems  to  set  the  world  right 
for  even  the  most  depressed,  and  can  be  depended  upon  to  sweeten 
every  moment  spent  over  it."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Friendship  Village  Love  Stories 

Decorated  cloth,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $f.jO  net;  postage  extra 

Miss  Gale's  pleasant  and  highly  individual  outlook  upon  life  has 
never  been  revealed  to  better  advantage  than  in  these  charming  stories 
of  the  heart  affairs  of  the  young  people  of  Friendship  Village. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 


Saturday's  Child 


By  KATHLEEN  NORRIS,  Author  of  "Mother,"  "The 
Treasure,"  etc.  With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  F. 
Graham  Cootes,  Decorated  cloth,  12010.  $1.50  net. 


"  Friday1  s  child  is  loving  and  giving, 
Saturday's  child  must  work  for  her  l\ 


*&  &*'t/*'/*'&7 

work  for  her  living. " 

The  title  of  Mrs.  Norris'  new  novel  at  once  indicates  its  theme.  It 
is  the  life  story  of  a  girl  who  has  her  own  way  to  make  in  the  world. 
The  various  experiences  through  which  she  passes,  the  various  view 
points  which  she  holds  until  she  comes  finally  to  realize  that  service  for 
others  is  the  only  thing  that  counts,  are  told  with  that  same  intimate 
knowledge  of  character,  that  healthy  optimism  and  the  belief  in  the 
ultimate  goodness  of  mankind  that  have  distinguished  all  of  this 
author's  writing.  The  book  is  intensely  alive  with  human  emotions. 
The  reader  is  bound  to  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Norris'  people  because 
they  seem  like  real  people  and  because  they  are  actuated  by  motives 
which  one  is  able  to  understand.  Saturday's  Child  is  Mrs.  Norris' 
longest  work.  Into  it  has  gone  the  very  best  of  her  creative  talent. 
It  is  a  volume  which  the  many  admirers  of  Mother  will  gladly  accept. 


The  Rise  of  Jennie  Gushing 


By  MARY  S.  WATTS,  Author  of  "Nathan  Burke,"  "Van 
Cleve,"  etc.     Cloth,   12010.     $1.35  net. 

In  Nathan  Burke  Mrs.  Watts  told  with  great  power  the  story  of  a  man. 
In  this,  her  new  book,  she  does  much  the  same  thing  for  a  woman. 
Jennie  Gushing  is  an  exceedingly  interesting  character,  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  of  any  that  Mrs.  Watts  has  yet  given  us.  The  novel 
is  her  life  and  little  else,  but  that  is  a  life  filled  with  a  variety  of  experi 
ences  and  touching  closely  many  different  strata  of  humankind. 
Throughout  it  all,  from  the  days  when  as  a  thirteen-year-old,  homeless, 
friendless  waif,  Jennie  is  sent  to  a  reformatory,  to  the  days  when  her 
beauty  is  the  inspiration  of  a  successful  painter,  there  is  in  the  narrative 
an  appeal  to  the  emotions,  to  the  sympathy,  to  the  affections,  that  can 
not  be  gainsaid. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 


The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore 


By  JACK  LONDON,  Author  of  "The  Sea  Wolf,"  "The 
Call  of  the  Wild,"  etc.  With  frontispiece  in  colors  by 
Anton  Fischer.  Cloth,  i2mo.  $1.35  net. 

Everyone  who  remembers  The  Sea  Wolf  with  pleasure  will  enjoy 
this  vigorous  narrative  of  a  voyage  from  New  York  around  Cape  Horn 
in  a  large  sailing  vessel.  The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore  is  the  same  kind 
of  tale  as  its  famous  predecessor,  and  by  those  who  have  read  it,  it  is 
pronounced  even  more  stirring.  Mr.  London  is  here  writing  of  scenes 
and  types  of  people  with  which  he  is  very  familiar,  the  sea  and  ships 
and  those  who  live  in  ships.  In  addition  to  the  adventure  element,  of 
which  there  is  an  abundance  of  the  usual  London  kind,  a  most  satisfying 
kind  it  is,  too,  there  is  a  thread  of  romance  involving  a  wealthy,  tired 
young  man  who  takes  the  trip  on  the  Elsinore,  and  the  captain's  daugh 
ter.  The  play  of  incident,  on  the  one  hand  the  ship's  amazing  crew  and 
on  the  other  the  lovers,  gives  a  story  in  which  the  interest  never  lags 
and  which  demonstrates  anew  what  a  master  of  his  art  Mr.  London  is. 

Neighbors:  Life  Stories  of  the  Other  Half 

By  JACOB  A.  Rus,  Author  of  "How  the  Other  Half 
Lives,"  etc.  With  illustrations  by  W.  T.  Benda. 
Decorated  cloth,  i2mo.  $1.25  net. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  books  ever  written  is  Jacob  Riis'  How 
the  Other  Half  Lives.  At  the  time  of  its  appearance  it  created  nothing 
short  of  a  literary  sensation,  and  it  is  still  found  among  the  widely 
read  and  discussed  publications.  The  present  volume  is  a  continuation 
or  an  elaboration  of  that  work.  In  it  Mr.  Riis  tells  with  that  charm 
which  is  peculiarly  his  own  and  with  a  wonderful  fidelity  to  life,  little 
human  interest  stories  of  the  people  of  the  "other  half. "  He  has  taken 
incidents  in  their  daily  lives  and  has  so  set  them  before  the  reader  that 
there  is  gained  a  new  and  a  real  insight  into  the  existence  of  a  class  which 
is,  with  each  year,  making  its  presence  felt  more  and  more  in  the  nation. 
These  tales,  though  in  the  garb  of  fiction,  are  true.  "I  could  not  have 
invented  them  had  I  tried;  I  should  not  have  tried  if  I  could,"  Mr.  Riis 
tells  us  in  a  prefatory  note. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUN  1  -  1975  6 


JUN3    "75 

FEB211980 


ftp  z\ 

REC.CIR.  APRl  9  '80 

DEC  2 


M    1 


i)476 


€00473=1173 


M553379 


